


Time Will Tell

by The_She_Devil



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-08
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-06 16:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 31,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3141419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_She_Devil/pseuds/The_She_Devil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After assisting with rescuing mutants from a military laboratory attempting to create a weapon using mutant powers, several new mutants come to the school, including Cal, a man with similar powers to Rogue. When Scott begins to develop a relationship with Cal, and Rogue begins to look to him as a mentor, Logan can hardly contain his jealousy. A string of student disappearances adds to the tension, and with Cerebro effectively destroyed thanks to Stryker’s raid, it is impossible to locate them. Have they run away? Or is something more sinister happening right under their noses? Logan is quick to lay blame to the new mutant, even as he is fast becoming heavily integrated into the school. Is Logan’s jealousy clouding his judgement, or is there really more to this interloper than meets the eye?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> While I do prefer the movie Bobby, Warren is still an original X-Man in my universe. And there may or may not be references to events that have happened in various comics and the novelizations of the movies. I’ll try to stay as movie canon as possible, minus X3 because ew. This is not completed, but I've been sitting on it for a while, so maybe starting posting chapters will compel me to hurry my ass up.

It was innocent at first. Logan flirted with Jean because he liked getting under the Boy Scout’s skin. Here Scott was, the son of a billionaire, leader of a vigilante mutant army, model gorgeous with shoes that were more expensive than Logan’s entire wardrobe – and he got to have a hot girlfriend? It just wasn’t fair to have everything handed to you like that. Logan had to put him through _some_ grief.

Plus it was the only way to get a reaction out of the guy; the only time that pretty face showed anything other than impassive stoicism and impossible restraint. It became a game, to see how far he had to push before that perfect mouth formed a prissy little frown or when that chiseled jaw clenched so hard Logan was sure the kid’s teeth would turn to calcium dust.

And then he did something stupid. He fell in love with her. How could he not? God, that gorgeous red hair, those sparkling eyes, legs that went on for miles. And not only looks! She was smart too, successful, and tough as nails to boot, a real fighter. Every man’s wet dream – more than that. Every man’s fantasy woman, the kind of girl you’d marry.

Of course, the ol’ Boy Scout had beaten him to that punchline. But maybe that’s why Logan had fallen for her in the first place. It was safe. Safe to fall for a good girl that had a good boy already attached to her. It meant it would never go anywhere. It meant he didn’t have to stick around this place and develop relationships with broken kids that were way too delicate for someone with sharp metal claws and a short temper to handle. It meant he didn’t have to hang around adults and form some kind of friendship with them, do annoying friend things like give them rides to the airport or have a conversation with them.

The Wolverine didn’t need friends. He didn’t need a family. Certainly, he didn’t need a lover. That just wasn’t who he was. Maybe it was who he used to be, but he couldn’t really remember further back than fifteen years ago. He just knew the kind of guy that wanted a wife, a best friend, children, connections, roots – that wasn’t the same guy that woke up in a fish tank from Hell, weighing a hundred extra pounds and eviscerating everyone that stood in his way of the exit.

Sure, he had loved her. But not like Scott had. Not in that undying-everlasting-eternally-true-love kind of way, the kind you hear about in Righteous Brothers’ songs while making out at Lover’s Lane in the back of your boyfriend’s father’s Cadillac after he asked you to go steady. Not the kind of love that makes you think of sunsets or rainbows or hearts carved in trees with initials inside of them or any other myriad number of sickeningly sweet, vomit-inducing Disney representations.

So if it was hard for Logan to walk these halls, to be constantly surrounded by memories and reminders of Jeannie, he couldn’t even begin to imagine how it was for Scott. He knew Scott wasn’t sleeping in their – his – room. It would’ve been hard for Logan to sleep there too. Well, it was hard for him to sleep anywhere, considering the nightmares, but to have to sleep in a bed that was once shared with a woman he’d loved for…Logan didn’t even know how many years Scott and Jean had been together – forever, if you asked the kids – well…okay, he got it. It was tough. He’d probably be wandering the school at night too, walking aimlessly through the gardens, or riding his motorcycle up and down back roads for hours. Anything to stay out of that room, out of his own head.

Still didn’t mean it was healthy. Especially when Logan would find Scott sleeping in a lawn chair in the morning by the leisure pool, or on one of the park benches out back, or curled up on the couch in Jean’s office, sometimes sprawled in a living room armchair with the TV on low volume, or slumped over the kitchen table. Embarrassing really, especially on those mornings the kids found him first and Rogue or Jubilee would come knocking on Logan’s door to gather the kid up and drag him up to his room and force him into the shower.

The only thing Logan hated more than being woken up before his alarm went off by worried students was babysitting, but he’d been unofficially assigned the task once it was apparent to everyone – specifically ’Ro – that Scott was not pulling himself up by his bootstraps about this. Kurt was too new and would only end up offering platitudes in the form of Bible verses, and that could always go two ways when one was grieving. Hank would only be able to comfort Scott if the poor kid had a dictionary and hours to kill while the furball lectured, and Logan was sure that would only end in Hank’s death by Scott’s hand, or Scott’s death by Scott’s own hand after being unable to stand listening to the good doctor drone on and on any longer.

So here Logan was, following Scott’s scent out back, down a twisting trail of pavestones, past the crimson flowers of the Royalty crabapple trees, beyond the low-growing evergreens and chokeberry bushes. Scott always wore the same cologne, a mixture of lavender, clove, lime and cedar.  It was more difficult to track him with all this damn fragrant foliage that ’Ro insisted on planting with the other Horticulture Club nerds, but the trail was fresh enough that Logan could still find him.

Jean had worn this perfume that smelled lightly of flowers like lilies and carnations, with strong hints of ginger and lemon and rose; powerful yet feminine, just like her. And underneath it all had been this light, delicate scent that was intrinsically Jean. Logan had always been attracted by scent more than beauty or personality or even gender, and before even opening his eyes down in the infirmary on first day in the mansion, he knew he was going to be attracted to Jeannie just by her smell.

Maddeningly but not unpredictably, she’d left that lovely scent on Scott’s skin. It had been difficult to pick up unless Logan was in very close proximity to him; the first time he’d smelled it, he and Scott were cramped inside of a closet trying to fix one of the ancient water heaters in the school. Beneath the sweat and musk and cologne and aggravation invading Logan’s sensitive nostrils, there it was: that alluring, intoxicating scent that hit him like a ton of bricks, conjuring sensations of soft skin and smooth, long lines, of warm breath and heavy breathing.

Sometimes, and Logan would never, ever admit this, but sometimes when he’d been feeling particularly lonely (or horny), when Jean hadn’t been around and he’d missed her (and was horny), when he’d wanted to bring back those sensations that only that scent could induce, he’d stand just…a little bit…too close…to Scott. It was perverse, really, he knew this. It was wrong on so many levels, to get flush to a man so he could get a whiff of his girlfriend. Akin to stealing her panties, probably. But if he got just close enough – close enough to feel the heat of Scott’s skin, close but not touching – he’d close his eyes and take a quiet, deep inhale, and…

_Oh._

He could almost imagine it was Jeannie within reach. But he hadn’t gotten close to Scott in months. Hadn’t wanted to. It was bad enough smelling her when he passed her bedroom or her old office, the painful twist he’d feel in his gut. He had no desire to seek out that scent any longer. So he stayed away just long enough until he was sure that that lingering smell would have dissipated forever, and after that of course he had no reason to get close to Scott Summers.

Only a few days ago, when Logan and Scott were training in the Danger Room, when they got a little too competitive in front of a group of the younger kids, when Logan caught Scott in a grappling hold and smashed him face first into the floor, twisting his wrist painfully behind his back and pinning him with his significantly greater weight, did Logan realize that Scott smelled like sweat and anger and exhilaration and…there was that delightful little scent, right there. It went from his nose to his brain, shot right down his spine and straight to his groin.

It was the same moment he realized Jean had been dead for six months, and perhaps he had been hasty to assume the scent had been hers all this time.

He was quick to release the writhing, leather-clad young man from beneath him, roughly shoving him into the floor and storming out of the Danger Room without another glance back, his face and ears and neck flushed with what he’d call embarrassment and definitely not desire.

Now, he stood silently at the edge of the garden, too far away to catch any ill-advised sniffs of unwanted pheromones from the man sitting on one of the park benches. He watched him for a moment, waiting, until Scott tensed infinitesimally and turned his head. He regarded Logan only briefly before returning his attention to the sky. Logan casually lit a cigar, flicking the lighter closed and stuffing it into his jeans before coming around and settling down next to the young field leader. The bench groaned under the weight of flesh and bones and adamantium.

Scott was clutching a bottle of expensive Kentucky whiskey between his thighs, his ruby quartz gaze directed at the sky. The old mutant didn’t think he’d ever seen the kid drink before, and wondered how bad of a sign this was; he didn’t know Scott well enough to tell. Logan watched as Scott drank straight from the bottle, listening to him breathe, smelling the alcohol and pain and despair (and, _God help him_ , that scent, and it was like his dick could smell it too).

Finally, indicating Scott’s liquor, Logan asked, “You’re not even going to offer me any?”

“No.”

“You’d think in a school, they’d teach you about sharing.”

“Adults don’t have to follow the rules,” he retorted bitterly, his words slow and deliberate, and if the smell hadn’t alerted Logan to the fact that Scott was as drunk as a skunk, the way he spoke sure did. Despite Scott’s obvious slur, he considered the young man’s words, wondering if he was referring to Jean’s death or Logan’s obvious plays for her or if he was just being a miserable prick tonight. The older mutant didn’t respond, just reached for the bag he’d brought out with him and pulled out a large bottle of Canadian whiskey, twice the size of Scott’s – and twice the taste, if you asked Logan. Scott eyed it dubiously.

“What?” Logan asked, twisting off the cap. “Like it’s so surprising mine would be bigger than yours?”

It surprised a bark of laughter out of Scott, the first time Logan had heard him laugh in weeks. It was a nice sound. A nice sight too, to see that smile. The kid had a killer smile, crooked and charming and – Jesus Christ, what was happening to him? Next thing he knew, that ache in his chest wasn’t going to be from the cigar smoke. He could see it now: complaining of chest pain, Hank doing some kind of x-ray and hanging up the image on a light box, and right in the center would be his heart, which would’ve miraculously grown three sizes that day and Christmas would be saved and –

“Do you mind not making me laugh?” Scott asked him, his voice light as his gaze returned to the gardens around them. “I’m trying to mourn here.”

“Sorry.” He took a swig of whiskey, swallowing down the harsh taste, enjoying the burn as it went down. “You know I’m usually the epitome of consideration. I don’t know what got into me.”

“I’ll let it slide this time,” the younger man assured him. They fell into silence, both men drinking their whiskeys and Logan enjoying his cigar. He’d sneak one here and there in his room, but to be honest, he didn’t really appreciate his bedroom smelling like a bar either. It was nice to be outside at this late hour, a cool breeze drifting by and blessed silence gracing the estate; such a stark contrast compared to the chaos this place endured during the daytime when it was full of rambunctious kids.

“It’s quiet now,” Scott murmured, almost to himself.

“Yeah, it’s a nice night,” Logan agreed.

“No, I mean…” The young man leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, glass bottle dangling from long, dexterous fingers. He tapped his forehead with his other hand. “In here. It’s quiet now. I used to…I used to hear her. But now she’s gone and it’s just…quiet.”

“What do you mean?” he asked gruffly, frowning. “You heard voices? You losin’ it, Slim?”

Scott tossed an amused smile at him from over his shoulder. “No, Logan. We shared a telepathic link. Since we were teenagers. And I wouldn’t hear her so much as I would feel her. She was just like this presence in the back of my mind. When she wanted to check up on me, when she missed me or thought about me, I could feel this…brush across my mind and it was her, making sure I was okay.”

Logan balked at the idea of being so intertwined with someone that you could feel their presence in your own head 24 hours a day. If he had ever thought he stood even a remote chance of stealing Scott Summers’ girl, the rug had just been pulled out from under him indefinitely. There’s no way he could’ve competed with two people that loved and trusted each other so implicitly they shared a goddamn telepathic link.

“I tried, Logan, I swear I tried,” he continued, his voice wavering. His breath hitched in his throat, a delicate tear escaping from his visor before he wiped it away angrily. “I was screaming at her in my mind. She was trying to talk to me and I couldn’t hear her, I was screaming so loud. She had to – she had to use Charles, because I wouldn’t listen.” He scoffed bitterly, and Logan wondered if he was thinking about all the things they could’ve – should’ve – said, if he hadn’t been losing it on that jet. “I felt it, you know. When the water hit her. When it was over. I felt it. I felt her…”

_Die._

“Jesus,” Logan whispered. He couldn’t even imagine the kind of pain one experienced when having to helplessly watch their fiancé die, but to have to _feel_ her go? To feel the instant soul left body, the instant everything just…stopped?

Scott leaned back once more, resting his back against the bench. “Logan, my life started when I came here. Jean’s always been here with me. Here and,” – he tapped his forehead again – “here. And now…now it’s just me. And I don’t know what to do. God, Logan, what do I do?”

And then he was crying. Really crying, like he had been on that plane when he must’ve felt Jean let go. Logan shifted uncomfortably, the wooden bench protesting noisily. He was not good at this, this whole heart-to-heart, mushy-feely thing, and he hadn’t really anticipated it anyway, so he was definitely not prepared. This poor kid was lost. Lost and broken and all he wanted was someone to tell him that everything was going to be okay. To ask Logan of this might’ve been foolish, but he’d been rolling with the punches his whole life (at least the parts he could remember), he could do this.

Brusquely, Logan draped an arm across Scott’s shoulders and crushed him to his side. He felt the younger man tense up, the breath escaping his lungs as Logan inadvertently squeezed a little too hard.

“What are you…?” Scott began, confusion lacing his voice, and then seemed to startle with realization. He looked at the older mutant with clear surprise from behind ruby quartz lenses, their faces close together. Logan had never realized until right now how bright the glow of Scott’s optic beams were, and if he looked very carefully, he could see it dim when Scott blinked. “Logan, are you hugging me?”

“Yeah, I think so. But don’t go spreading it around. Then everybody’s gonna want one.”

Scott smiled again, that wry smile that Logan didn’t get to see nearly enough. He wondered what he could do to make it last longer, to appear more often. He wondered if that smile reached the younger man’s eyes, what color they were, and if the full effect would be just as deadly as those optic blasts.

“You’re secret’s safe with me,” Scott said quietly, their faces still close. Close enough for Logan to smell the whiskey on Scott’s tongue, the salt of tears on his cheeks. Close enough to see the crisp autumn wind gently caress the silky tendrils of Scott’s hair. Close enough to feel the heat of Scott’s long, lithe body pressed against his side. Close enough for Logan to hear Scott’s heartbeat suddenly quicken and flutter, to hear a startled breath release so softly from Scott’s lips.

Close enough – so close, right on the edge – that for one breath-stealing, time-freezing moment, Logan could almost, almost believe that if he decided to lean forward and kiss the young field leader, it would be the first time that Scott would agree with anything Logan decided to do. And he wanted to – God, he wanted to. But Scott was hurting, lonely, vulnerable, and drunk. If Logan ever did decide to kiss him, to press his lips right against Scott’s, to taste whiskey and lick away the salt of his tears from his cheek, it was going to be because he was sure Scott wanted him, and not because he was grieving and looking for a distraction.

Scott blushed. This very becoming rosy flush rising into delicately sculpted cheekbones that was equally endearing as it was sexy. He laughed then, suddenly, almost a giggle, and Logan was sure if he ever told anyone that he had witnessed Scott Summers, Assistant Headmaster to Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters – had witnessed Cyclops, field leader of the X-Men _giggle_ , no one would believe him.

Shaking his head almost at himself, Scott turned away. The moment lost, Logan was about to pull his arm from around Scott’s shoulders when he felt the young man lean closer into his side, melting against Logan and resting his head on the older mutant’s shoulder. Logan tensed for the briefest of moments before he smiled softly, relaxing against the park bench as he allowed himself to enjoy the comfortable and warm rare display of affection between them.

Scott began speaking again, his voice carrying gently over the cool night air:

_“Time is_

_Too slow for those who Wait,_

_Too swift for those who Fear,_

_Too long for those who Grieve_

_Too short for those who Rejoice,_

_But for those who Love,_

_Time is not.”_

“Is that like a poem or some shit?” Logan asked.

“Yes,” Scott responded, and Logan could practically hear him rolling his eyes behind the dark lenses of his glasses. “I teach it in my senior lit class every year, but it’s never meant as much to me as it does now.” The young man suddenly lifted his head, speaking as if the thought just occurred to him. “You should take my lit class. You might learn something.”

“I’ll consider it if I’m ever trying to take a nap and can’t fall asleep.”

“I bet you don’t know one poem.”

“Sure I do. _There once was a man from Nantucket –_ ”

“Logan!”

Scott shifted in his seat, pulling away from Logan who pretended not to mourn the loss of the lean figure against his side. He thought for a moment he might have offended the young man and nearly blurted out an apology – anything to get that warmth back – but Scott was compressing a smile. To Logan’s surprise, the other mutant turned towards him and folded one of his long legs on the bench seat, pressing his shin against Logan’s thigh. One elbow jutted over the back of the park bench, his fingertips pulling at the loose threads in the seam of Logan’s jean jacket by his shoulder. The gestures were so casual it held an intimacy that Logan hadn’t known in a long time, and he felt that ache in his chest again. Damn heart.

“So what’s it called?” Logan asked.

“The poem?” Scott ducked his head, and Logan could see from the angle of the red glow that the young man was peeking up at him from beneath dark eyelashes. “ _Time Is_ , by Henry Van Dyke.”

Logan grunted pensively. “And what about for somebody like me? Somebody who’s got all the time in the world?”

Scott shrugged much more elegantly than a drunk man had any right to, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I guess time will tell.”

 

* * *

To be continued...

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can believe it, I named my fic wrong. It was always meant to be called Time Will Tell, which is more in tune to the theme of the story and seeing what will happen with the characters and their relationships and unfolding what their motives are with time. I'm a dummy.

Scott Summers lived in a school full of children; it was imperative for him to maintain the image of a respectable, responsible adult. It wouldn’t do to indulge in such vices as drinking or partying all night. Most of these kids came from broken homes, having been abandoned or ostracized, physically and emotionally abused, sometimes sexually too. They needed a role model, someone they could look up to and aspire to be. Someone they could rely on, someone they could trust.

A mutant who had come from a broken home, who had been abandoned and ostracized, who had been physically and emotionally abused, sometimes sexually too, and grew up to be the Assistant Dean of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, grew up to be the Field Leader of the X-Men? Who else better to show them that there was a way to not only survive one’s childhood but to come out the other side and make something of themselves?

So it was important for Scott to stay in control, but not only for his students, for his teammates as well. His job was to bring back his friends (and really the only family he had) alive from dangerous missions. He couldn’t afford to allow anger or fear to cloud his judgment in the field, couldn’t allow an argument with Jean or ‘Ro to interfere with a recon or extraction. He needed to keep his cool at all times, no matter what.

Some job he’d done of that two weeks ago, the night he’d gotten a little bit too tipsy on expensive whiskey and decided to spill his guts to Logan, making a fool out of himself. He could still feel a rush of embarrassment creep up the back of his neck as he considered how close he’d been to laying what would’ve undoubtedly been a big, sloppy, wet kiss on the guy. The fact that he’d wanted to at the time he could chalk up to loneliness, to seeking comfort with the only other person who could understand what it had felt like to lose the woman he loved. It was perfectly reasonable for that comfort to turn into sexual attraction when emotions were running high, especially when he hadn’t even touched himself since Jean’s death, let alone felt the touch of another.

The fact that he still wanted to kiss Logan left something to be said. The guy drove him bananas, for one thing. The jerk had wanted his girlfriend, his job as leader in the field – even his bike, damn it, and the latter he’d actually gotten. Well, he’d returned it, sure, but of course running on fumes, and don’t think Scott hadn’t noticed that ding in the exhaust pipe or the scratch on the fuel tank, and was that a bullet hole in the fender?

And, okay, Logan was a _man_ , but living amongst telepaths for so many years had really taught Scott that a person was so much more than their body. Jean was the first person Scott had ever been attracted to, but it wasn’t because she was a woman that he had been attracted to her in the first place. They hadn’t even met when he first felt her reaching out to him in the orphanage via Cerebro (and under Charles’ guidance), and even then he hadn’t known whether who he’d felt had been male or female. He just knew that, after waking up from a coma to find his parents dead and brother gone, to find that nobody wanted to adopt a kid with brain damage, to find that kids were mean and adults weren’t much better, he’d felt hope for the first time in a long time.

And then it was gone, and Scott was alone.

When he would finally meet Jean, this awkward and shy Amazonian teenaged girl with gangly elbows and knees, he wouldn’t know she was the comforting presence he’d felt brush across his mind all those years ago. He’d only realize it when, one night, as they were alone in the library studying while Charles was running errands in the city, she had peeked over her copy of _Gray’s Anatomy_ and asked if she could try something with this sly smile and a twinkle in her eye.

_He hesitated, narrowing his eyes. He knew that look; it meant trouble. He tried not to, but he found himself returning her smile. “Okay.”_

_“Come here.”_

_He scooted closer, sitting cross-legged across from her in front of the large fireplace, their knees touching._

_“Think of something,” she instructed. The first thing that came to mind was the cute fuzzy gremlin from that movie he and Jean had seen earlier that night._

_“Ready.”_

_She bit her bottom lip and placed tentative fingertips on his temples, and he waited. He felt something after a few moments, a gentle caress in the back of his mind, as timid as the fingers on either side of his face._

_“Do you see it?” he asked excitedly. She shook her head, huffing out a frustrated breath through her nose before narrowing her eyes. Frowning, eyebrows drawn together, he focused on Gizmo harder, as if that would help her pull the thought from him. “Try harder.”_

_She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, centering herself. Stronger, deeper, the connection became. He felt her, bright and fiery inside of him, tendrils of heat licking at his brain, spreading through his veins like quicksilver. And he knew. He knew. This was the one he’d felt as a young and despairing boy in the orphanage, the one who had felt his pain, his loneliness, his hopelessness; and in turn, he had felt her bright spirit, had felt her compassion and warmth, had felt her loving embrace around his soul._

_She gasped and snatched her hands away, breaking the connection. He stared at her in shock, breathing hard, his heart thrumming against his ribcage so loudly he was sure she could hear it. Her mouth was hanging open, eyes wide, three beats passing before she lurched forward and threw her arms around his shoulders._

_“It was you!” she squealed with delight, half-laughing and half-crying. “It was you! God, I always wondered what happened to you! I’m so glad you’re all right. Oh, Scott, oh, Scott.”_

And that was the moment Scott had fallen in love with Jean, if he hadn’t already loved her all along.

A loud pop broke him from his thoughts, drawing his attention to Jubilee, snapping her gum.

“Um, Mr. Summers?” she asked, regarding him with a mix of concern, puzzlement, and disdain that only she could achieve. “The bell rang two minutes ago. Are we gonna like, start class sometime today?”

“Jubilee, no chewing gum in class,” he stated. She pulled her gum from her mouth and placed the tiny wad at the corner of her desk. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited, watching her until she rolled her eyes and picked up the gum, stuffing it into a torn piece of notebook paper. “Thank you. This class is going to cover several eras in the English language,” Scott continued, addressing the latest semester of students as he leaned against the front of his desk. “From the Middle Ages all the way to contemporary American writing. Since this is the Senior English Lit class and you’ve all grown much more mature and wiser over the summer…” There was a murmur of laughter throughout the class. Scott smiled knowingly as Bobby knocked knuckles with Piotr, as Jubilee pushed Bobby’s shoulder playfully and Rogue rolled her eyes. “…Our themes are going to get a bit more interesting – more adult.”

A loud burst startled Scott and the rest of his class as Logan clambered through the door, slamming it behind him in his haste. The students twisted in their chairs, watching as the older man rushed into the room. Immediately, Scott stood, his heart pounding hard in his chest and adrenaline pumping through his veins as he jumped into Field Leader Mode, ready to handle whatever emergency Logan had for him.

One could imagine Scott’s surprise when instead of announcing a mutant in danger or the Brotherhood returning or an impending apocalypse, Logan instead sat down at an empty desk in the back of the room; he quickly settled in, folding his hands on the top of his desk and giving his full attention to Scott with an expression of pure innocence, as if he belonged there with the other students.

The children looked back at Scott, their faces reflecting their confusion. Some appeared quite nervous; considering Logan’s reputation at the school, it was understandable. Most students avoided him, scared of the big, bad wolf. Scott briefly wondered what the kids would think if he told them Logan had recently ventured into the business of giving hugs to lonely mutants; they probably wouldn’t believe it.

Frowning, Scott asked, “Can I help you, Logan?”

The entire class turned to Logan again. The older mutant cleared his throat, appearing uncomfortable with the attention as he shifted in his seat. “This is your English Literature class, right?”

“Yes.”

“The same one you told me to take?”

“That same one.”

“Well?” Logan huffed, as if it were obvious. Scott waited for him to elaborate, but the man only sat there, regarding Scott expectantly.

“Okay,” Scott finally conceded with a nod, attempting to return his heart rhythm to normal sinus now that the threat of immediate danger was no longer on the horizon. He turned back to his class, but not before regarding Logan one more time. “Although in the future, do try to be on time.”

Logan frowned, grumbling to himself as he motioned for Scott to continue. As Scott began handing out the syllabus for the year and pointing out some highlights, he wondered why, now, Logan would decide to take any advice Scott had given. He couldn’t get the guy to follow a single command out in the field, not even something as simple as “stay here,” or “go to the right,” or even, “don’t press that button.” The words wouldn’t even be out of his mouth before Logan was moving forward, or left, or setting off all kinds of alarms because he just had to press that button since Scott had told him not to. And yet when he finally starts listening, it’s something as trivial as taking a lit class?

And why was Scott so happy about it?

“As I was saying earlier,” the young field leader continued, returning to perch on the edge of his desk, “this class is going to include more adult themes: language, violence, sex – ”

“Sex?” Logan blurted from the back of the class, one eyebrow quirking as he looked up from his syllabus. It surprised a laugh out of the students, causing the old mutant to shift in his seat from the attention.

“Yes, Logan. Sex,” Scott repeated with much more confidence than he felt, hoping the blush creeping up into his cheeks would go away by sheer will. “And we’re going to start with a book that covers all three: The Great Gatsby.”

Jubilee’s hand shot up like a rocket.

“You still need to read the book even if you’ve seen the movie,” Scott stated, and Jubilee reluctantly lowered her hand as a look of disappointment crossed her features. Scott turned towards the blackboard, grinning broadly only when his face was safely hidden from his class as he began to write. This was going to be an interesting year.

* * *

 

To be continued... Thank you for your feedback and kudos!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than anticipated to write! But I am pleased with the result. I hope you are too! Enjoy, and thank you for your continuing kindness by way of reviews and kudos. :)

Rogue stood in the snow outside the mansion at the bottom of a ladder, hands gripping the metal firmly to hold it in place, like safety protocols recommended. It was definitely _not_ recommended, however, to stand on the very top of a ladder, which Logan was currently doing. The older mutant was balancing precariously on the toes of his work boots, reaching high with a staple gun and grunting as he slammed it against the wooden frame of one of the front windows of the mansion.

“I know you probably can’t see it, since you’re standing on it,” Rogue called in her lilting Mississippi accent, “but there’s actually a picture on the ladder that specifically warns against doing what you’re doing.”

“What?” Logan asked, looking over his shoulder at the girl below him. “Hanging up Christmas lights?”

“Yes,” she answered, her voice edged with sarcasm. She rolled her eyes. “It’s a picture of a man hanging up Christmas lights inside of a big red circle with a line through it.”

“You know, I don’t even know why I’m doing this,” he grumbled, which wasn’t true at all. He knew exactly why he was doing this: because the girl standing directly below him had come knocking on his bedroom door, looking up at him with big brown eyes and an armful of tangled Christmas lights. “There are mutants at this school that can literally fly, and here I am freezing my ass off on the top of a ladder all day.”

“It’s in the spirit of Christmas!” she shot back, and then added under her breath, “Scrooge.”

Logan turned back to the window, reaching out to hang the next foot of lights. He couldn’t quite reach his intended target, but he definitely didn’t want to climb back down the ladder and reposition himself for the hundredth time since getting roped into this several hours ago. He took one foot off the ladder carefully in order to stretch out even further, lining up the string of lights and closing one eye, sticking his tongue out in concentration as he aimed.

“Logan!” Rogue warned. “You’re going to fall and break your neck!”

“Relax, kid,” he assured her gruffly, the ladder groaning beneath him. Even if he did fall, which he definitely wasn’t going to do, and even if he did break his neck, which wasn’t going to happen either, it’s not like the effects would last longer than a few moments. “I’m not going to -- ”

The ladder shifted almost imperceptibly, Logan’s boot slipped sideways, and then suddenly the ground was rushing up to meet him. Instinctively, he gripped the Christmas lights, pulling down the string of wire with him, staples popping out of the wood and flying helter-skelter. He could hear Rogue’s shriek as he collapsed into a row of hedges, puffs of white powder exploding in the air above him. Right before his world turned black.

…

“...you hear me? Logan? Can you hear me?”

As he came back to consciousness, Logan was vaguely aware of Rogue’s voice above him. She sounded worried.

“Logan?” A different voice this time, a strong, male voice, managing to scold and sound amused at the same time. Logan grunted, daring to peek one eye open to see Rogue’s anxious expression accompanied by another face unreadable, guarded by ruby red quartz. “You know you aren’t supposed to stand on the top of a ladder, right? There’s even a picture right on the top step advising against it.”

“I tried to tell him, Mr. Summers!” Rogue insisted, nervously wringing her silk gloved hands like a fretting mother.

Scott offered his hand to Logan, who eyed it cautiously before accepting. He must have just come from inside, because the younger man’s hand was warm even though he wasn’t wearing gloves, not even a jacket, just a burgundy turtleneck that made his fair skin look nearly as white as the snow. He hoisted Logan up with a strength that was surprising considering the added weight of adamantium, although Logan supposed it shouldn’t be. The kid did carry him out of Canada when they’d first met -- supposedly. Logan had been unconscious, so he couldn’t say if it had really happened that way.

“I’m fine,” Logan huffed, once he was vertical and the bones in his spine had rearranged themselves in proper order. He brushed the snow out of his unruly hair and off of his shoulders.

“Good,” Scott stated with a nod, “because I have a mission for you. The both of you.”

One didn’t need to have an acute sense of smell to tell that Rogue was immediately distressed, fear and anxiety rolling off of her in waves. She hadn’t been on a mission since Stryker’s raid on the school, and they all knew how horrifyingly that had ended. Even then, she had only been involved by circumstance; she was still only seventeen, too young to be on the team and running around executing missions, no matter what their wise field leader may have thought.

Logan glanced at the young girl beside him briefly before returning his gaze to Scott. “Listen, whatever you’ve got planned -- ”

“Is top secret,” Scott interrupted, annoyingly. Logan bristled. “It’s a very specific mission we have to conduct every year. We need you, Logan,” he said, very seriously as he looked directly at the older man, who tried not to feel some lame sense of gratification at the fact that he could be needed. He’d been on a few missions since returning to the mansion, just picking up mutant kids in trouble or keeping an eye on anti-mutant organizations, but nothing big enough to warrant pulling in the students. The field leader turned to Rogue. “Rogue, I think you’re old enough to handle this and keep it quiet.”

“Well -- I guess -- if that’s what you think,” she stammered, her eyes shifting to Logan for reassurance or a way out or what, he didn’t know; being depended on for anything was still new to him.

“Listen, bub,” Logan cut in, shifting his stance to wedge himself between the young man and the even younger girl beside him.

“It’s a very minimally dangerous mission,” Scott interrupted once again, and this time Logan didn’t hold back the snarl curling his lip. Scott ignored him. “Don’t worry. You’ll both be back in time to get that essay done for class tomorrow.”

“I’ve already done it,” Rogue assured him.

“I never intended to do it,” Logan stated, “so that’s not really a problem for me either.”

Scott stared at Logan and opened his mouth, appearing about to speak before he seemed to reconsider and instead just sighed. “Let’s go then.”

“You’re...sure you’re sure?” Rogue asked timidly, her brow knotted.

“I’m sure, Rogue,” Scott stated firmly. “Bobby will be joining us as well.”

“Oh -- okay,” Rogue said, and Logan could smell her fear ease slightly as the tension in her posture relaxed marginally.

Scott smiled confidently, but it wasn’t the kind of genuine warm smile Logan had witnessed so many weeks ago in the gardens. The young man cocked his head towards the mansion. “Come on. We’re meeting downstairs in the War Room.”

The War Room, a meeting room usually used to deliberate and plan missions, was located two floors underground, only accessible by punching in a security code in the elevator. As soon as Scott opened the door, Logan knew he’d been duped. There were supplies everywhere, scattered on the table, the floor, the countertops. Tape and brightly colored ribbons and gaudy bows and ostentatious wrapping paper with obscenely cheery snowmen and Santa Clauses and reindeer. And the toys -- God, the toys. Not just toys, other gifts too. Everywhere. Electronics and dolls and games and musical instruments and sneakers and...

“No,” Logan whispered with dread, stepping backwards into the chest of the young field leader, who only pushed him forward. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.”

“Oh, Mr. Summers!” Rogue squealed, clasping her hands together and jumping up and down excitedly. Absolutely beaming, her smile was blinding, her brown eyes bright and sparkling. “Yes, you can trust me, absolutely, I won’t tell a soul!”

The furball was already sitting at the table; Henry McCoy, a doctor that apparently had also been one of the flagship members of the X-Men. Logan had met him for the first time at Jean’s funeral, and since then he’d taken up as resident doctor, although it was only supposed to have been temporary. Somehow, he’d ended up with two classes this year that Jean would’ve usually taught, and he didn’t seem to be going anywhere, at least for now.

Presently, there was a stack of papers beside him, bright yellow Post-It notes stuck to the big, blue fingers of one hand, and a Sharpie clutched in the other. He brightened at Logan’s dismay, his golden eyes sparkling as he bared his fangs in a toothy smile.

“How nice of you to join us, Logan!” Hank exclaimed. “I was sure Rogue would agree to participate, but less confident you would lend us your services. We can use all the assistance we can get. As you can see, there are many gifts to wrap, but first we must organize what belongs to whom. I have a list here and some Post-It notes, and I think -- ”

“Oh, can it, Hank,” an amused voice came from behind them, and Logan immediately felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. “We don’t need an entire dissertation on the fundamentals of gift wrapping. It kind of takes all the fun out of it.”

He glanced over his shoulder with a scowl as the snob came through the door, ducking and turning slightly to allow his considerable wings to make it through. Warren Worthington. Great. As if this wasn’t bad enough, now he got stuck with this pretty rich boy, smiling cheerily with his straight white teeth, his blond hair without a strand out of place. Tall and athletically built, his frame was further accentuated by his perfectly tailored clothes, and did Logan mention pretty? Because the guy was, obscenely so. A true angel on earth.

It was sickening, as was the arm he threw so casually around Scott’s shoulders, who didn’t even flinch at the touch. The young field leader, usually so stiff and standoffish, actually leaned into Warren’s touch, raising up one hand to brush long fingers across the expanse of white feathers with a familiarity one would use to run their fingers through an old lover’s hair.

“Mr. Worthington,” Rogue said breathlessly, shouldering Logan out of the way with a little more force than he thought was necessary. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“And you too, Rogue,” he responded with a charming smile, reaching out to touch a lock of white hair as if he had the right to do that. She blushed furiously, lowering her eyelashes and giggling. The sudden rush of teenaged pheromones invading Logan’s nostrils did nothing to ease the situation.

Logan growled.

“I remember you, too,” Warren said cheerily, extending his hand to the older mutant. “Logan, right? What do they call you, the Badger? Oh, no, that’s not it. It’s with a ‘w,’ isn’t it? I know, the Weasel? Or was it Wildebeest, something like that?”

“Wolverine,” he snarled, as Scott elbowed Warren in the side, barely compressing a smile. Logan took the hand offered to him, gripping it firmly and taking perverse pleasure in watching the younger man wince.

“Quite a grip you’ve got there,” Warren commented, his voice strained. He snatched his hand back, shaking it out and laughing nervously.

“Got metal in my bones,” Logan replied apologetically. He extended his claws by way of example, smiling when Warren jumped in surprise. “Sometimes I don’t know my own strength.”

“Well,” the blond murmured, and smiled brightly once again. “Those will certainly come in handy cutting up all this wrapping paper, now won’t they?”

Scott smiled, open and warm and so easy as Warren led him to the conference table. Logan set his jaw, cracking his neck and forcing himself to take a few deep breaths. He was still facing the doorway and willing his blood pressure to lower below stroke warning levels when ’Ro strode gracefully into the room. She quirked an eyebrow at his stormy expression.

“Does birdboy still have his arm around the Boy Scout’s shoulders?” he asked, without preamble. Just one corner of her lips tilted upwards, her eyes glittering with barely restrained amusement as they darted to the scene behind him and then back to Logan. She shook her head once. He only grunted in response, and she patted him placatingly on the shoulder as she passed by.

“Come, Logan,” she called. “Or you’ll miss out on all the fun.”

Bah humbug.

* * *

Eventually, they fell into a companionable routine, wrapping gifts and chatting about the school, the people they knew, the people they’d lost. Despite his previous misgivings, Logan supposed this wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. Mostly, he kept to himself, but he was enjoying the stories shared between the four old friends at the table, and he considered it was nice for Rogue and Bobby to see that their teachers actually had some kind of personalities.

Well, most of them. He eyed Scott from across the table, who was carefully cutting wrapping paper into a precise right angle, the length measured exactly enough to fit the gift he was wrapping. God forbid anybody gave the kid an irregularly shaped gift; it was far too mind-boggling for him to have to figure out how to perfectly wrap it, and took nearly three times as long as it did for him to wrap a square shaped box.

“Do you remember how mad Scott would get when we used the War Room for things like this?” Warren asked, his wings fluttering like an excited bird’s. He straightened his posture, his expression serious. “‘This room is for planning missions, not surprise birthday parties.’”

“I do not sound like that,” Scott interjected from his seat beside his old friend.

“‘Warren, poker games are not allowed in the War Room!’” he continued, in what Logan had to admit was a pretty good impression of the boring field leader.

Ororo laughed, covering her mouth with delicate fingertips. “As if any of that is worse than what we found Scott doing with Jean in here.”

“You mean what Jean was doing with Scott,” Hank cut in, golden eyes sparkling.

Logan was sure Scott’s red glare was brighter and somehow more indignant as he turned towards his old friends. Immediately, Logan cocked an eyebrow, pausing in allowing Rogue to use one of his claws to curl a long string of shiny green ribbon. “And what was that, exactly?”

“It’s nothing we need to discuss in front of the children,” Scott stated, indicating Bobby and Rogue with a wave of his hand. The two students exchanged a glance before turning to ’Ro.

“I’m eighteen,” Bobby stated, as if that alone meant he met the criteria to be let in on the dirt.

“I’ll be eighteen in two months,” Rogue quickly chimed in.

“You have to tell us,” Bobby pleaded, as Rogue nodded excitedly in agreement.

“No -- ” Scott began dismissively, but Warren quickly extended one of his wings with a _woosh_ of air, pushing Scott’s chair nearly across the room, the wheels squeaking with protest.

“You have to understand,” Warren began almost conspiratorially. The two young students leaned forward in their seats as Scott pulled himself back to the table with wounded dignity. “Jean was four years older than Scotty here. She was already in college by the time he got here, and he followed her around like a puppy on a leash, but she wouldn’t give him the time of day. Granted, Scott was just a little runt at the time, so you can’t really blame her. But he would do anything she wanted, that girl had this poor boy wrapped around her little finger and he loved it.”

The group turned to Scott collectively, as if to verify Warren’s account. The young man shrugged, nodding in hesitant agreement.

“Jean had been invited to go on some big spring break trip that all the girls in her class were going to,” the blond continued. “Her parents said she wasn’t old enough or mature enough to go without adult supervision, so Jean took it upon herself to have her own party. She bought herself a big bottle of tequila and a bunch of limes, but of course all of her friends were in Mexico and she was stuck in Westchester. So who does she rope into indulging in her pity party?”

On cue, Scott pointed to himself.

“This guy,” Warren agreed, grabbing Scott’s shoulders and squeezing playfully. “Hank, ’Ro, and I had been out to dinner with Charles. We must’ve looked all over for those two before we went downstairs. This room is soundproof, so we didn’t hear anything at first. Open the door, and what do we find? Those two, drunk as skunks, in their underwear, a camcorder, and some Marvin Gaye.”

“No!” Rogue breathed. Bobby laughed nervously, the beginnings of a blush creeping into his cheeks. Logan raised his eyebrows in surprise, supposing that if Scott fucked anywhere except a bed or recorded it, either had to have been Jeannie’s idea. He couldn’t imagine such a Boy Scout coming up with the idea himself, and he’d seen that mischievous streak in Jean, the unmistakable glint in her eyes. He wouldn’t even put it past her to use a little ‘power of suggestion’ to get her boytoy to loosen up. Then he shifted uncomfortably as his jeans seemed to get a little too tight.

All eyes turned to Scott, who was carefully applying a bow in the exact center of his gift. He looked up when he was finished, glancing blankly from face to face until he startled with realization. “No! No, not... _that_. We weren’t doing that.”

“Worse,” ’Ro cut in. “Karaoke.”

“Why were you in your underwear?” Rogue asked with the unabashed curiosity of a teenaged girl while her boyfriend rubbed a hand over one of his scarlet cheeks in an attempt to hide his obvious horror.

“Those idiots were so drunk they couldn’t get the doors open,” Warren stated, rolling his eyes. “They’d accidentally turned the heat up while trying to figure it out and couldn’t seem to understand why it was so hot.”

Scott raised a finger. “This is a prime example of why drinking irresponsibly is -- ”

“Is great,” Warren quickly interjected. “And we have the video to prove it.”

“The worst part was when the Professor found us,” ’Ro said, shaking her head with wide eyes as if she were still shaken by the aftereffects.

“Yes, there were definitely no parties for a very long time after that,” Hank recalled ruefully.

“Wait -- us?” Logan asked.

“If you can’t beat ’em,” Warren shrugged innocently. Logan scoffed and shook his head. “And this dummy here was so smitten with our dear Jean he tried to take the fall for buying the liquor after we got caught. Not only was he lying to a _telepath_ , who on earth would believe this Boy Scout would ever break the rules?”

“Now, now, Warren,” Hank chided. “Perhaps if you had acted as chivalrous, Jean wouldn’t have turned you down all those times you asked her out.”

Logan smirked, pleased that this rich pretty boy didn’t get _everything_ he wanted, even with his perfect face and perfect hair and boatloads of money. “Oh, really?”

“Hey, she said yes!” Warren insisted, and then deflated suddenly. “Once. Although I probably should have known something was amiss when she showed up to dinner with Scott.”

“She did not!” Rogue gasped with wide eyes, her mouth open in a perfect O.

“She most certainly did,” the blond stated, shaking his head with disbelief.

“I didn’t want to go, if that makes it any better,” Scott said consolingly, placing a hand on Warren’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “It was...awkward, to say the least.”

There was a momentary silence before Logan grunted, “Well?”

“Well, what?” Scott asked.

“Where’s the video?”

Scott didn’t answer. He only grinned, like the sun peeking out behind the clouds after a rainy day. Wide and open with just a hint of mischief, gorgeous and genuine and full of promise. And this time he was looking right at Logan, warming him from the inside out.

* * *

It was a clear night, the full moon bright as it shone down on the white snow, illuminating the grounds in a soft glow. Scott Summers sat outside in the gardens watching the sky, bundled up in a downy jacket, his hands stuffed into his pockets and warm air escaping his mouth in puffs of steam.

He’d been out there for a while. Logan had been keeping a watchful eye on the old Boy Scout since completing their top secret mission as Santa’s little helpers. All that talk about Jean and old times at the school had been nice, and probably good for the kid to hear, but her absence had been even more apparent with Scott, Hank, ’Ro and Warren sitting right there without her. As the evening progressed, Scott had withdrawn more and more within himself. Sure, he’d smiled at the right times, responded when he should have, but Logan could smell the sadness in the air.

Quietly, Scott had busied himself putting away the last of the presents in an empty storage closet, and then he had disappeared. Logan had followed his scent out back just as he had done two months ago, but this time he didn’t need any ominous looks from ’Ro to motivate him.

They hadn’t spent much time alone together since then. Except on missions, but Scott was always all business on those. (Worse since Jean’s death from what ’Ro said, but Logan supposed that was only to be expected. It was the only mission where someone didn’t return, and now Scott made sure to pay attention to every detail to ensure it never happened again. Which didn’t leave much room for conversing or -- God forbid -- smiling.)

Logan still attended Scott’s English lit class every week day, sitting in the back of the room and keeping to himself. He might not have ever done his homework, and maybe missed a few test days here and there (all of them), but it surprised him how much he liked being there. He enjoyed Scott’s lectures.The kid knew a lot of stuff, more stuff than Logan thought he’d probably forgotten. His voice was calm but firm, caressing in a way that was almost hypnotizing; Logan found himself wanting to listen to him, following his orders without a second thought, and he understood now why the kid was such a good Field Leader -- he was a natural. Not that he’d ever tell him that.

Not only the lectures, Logan found himself enjoying other parts of class too. Being around the kids, watching them interact with each other and the teacher. Scott told corny jokes just to make the students laugh, and Logan would never admit it but that was his favorite part of class. To see the set up, to hear the words, to watch that sly smile spread across the young man’s face while Bobby groaned and Jubilee rolled her eyes, and sometimes a red gaze would aim in Logan’s direction as if they were in on the secret together.

If Logan were to be honest, he knew the real reason they hadn’t spent any time together outside of classes or missions was because Logan was absolutely terrified. For some reason whenever the younger man was around him, he seemed to lose control of all normal bodily responses, and it would happen so suddenly. He’d be doing something mundane like making a sandwich in the kitchen when he’d get a whiff of that cologne. His heart rate would speed up, his breathing quickening, a warmth flooding his belly and spreading through his veins. Scott didn’t even have to enter the room, but Logan would see the perfect pale skin of his neck, feel the heat of his body, taste the salt on his skin.

(He could still hear Jubilee’s voice dripping with disdain. “Your sandwich is going to fall out of your mouth if you don’t close it. You do know how to eat, don’t you? Bite, chew, swallow? Welcome to civilization.”)

Usually when talking to Logan or asking him to help him with something, Scott would get close enough for Logan to smell _that_ scent, the one below all the other superficial surface ones, the one that was just intrinsically Scott, the one that made Logan twitch like a cat on catnip. His fingers would itch to touch, muscles taut as he fought to remain still and not do something stupid like throw the kid over his shoulder and drag him to his lair, or bite the scruff of his neck, or rut against him and rub his scent all over the kid to mark his territory like a tomcat in heat. Only when Scott would call his name five or so times would Logan realize he’d missed everything that had been said.

“You’re not even listening to me, are you?” Scott would say, shaking his head and throwing his hands up in a _why-do-I-bother?_ type of way as he walked away.

It wasn’t purely physical, and that was probably the most terrifying of all. Holding on to Scott in that plane so fiercely when Jean had died, the kid clinging to him like a life buoy in a choppy sea...sitting with him on that same park bench Scott was currently occupying, the heat of Scott’s body against his side, Scott’s soft brown hair tickling his cheek as the young man leaned his head on his shoulder...that was...that was something else. Something that pulled at Logan’s heart, something that made him want to protect the kid and hide him away and keep him safe. Something that made him want to make the kid proud, earn his respect, earn his...love.

It had been different when it was Jean. She had conjured equally as terrifying emotions, but she’d also been unobtainable. Now she was gone, and Scott was alone, and Logan wanted to run away more than ever. But every time he thought to go, every time he packed his bag at night and promised himself to leave bright and early in the morning, he never seemed to be able to walk out the door.

He hesitated now as he did on those mornings, but he couldn’t just let the kid sit out there and freeze to death. Finally, he took a step forward, his boot crunching in the snow. Scott stiffened as he was alerted to a presence, then stood, and Logan was beginning to wonder if the young field leader had some kind of sixth sense mutation Logan didn’t know about when there was a great rush of air from the sky. Quickly, the old mutant stepped back into the foliage, narrowing his eyes as an angel swooped in from above.

Scott didn’t even flinch as Warren landed gracefully to the ground only a few feet away from him, instead smiling brightly and eagerly approaching the (of course) shirtless mutant. His skin was pale even against the snowy landscape, his body lean and strong, chest hairless, and Logan wondered what kind of mutants they pumped out of this school. Was it just the luck of the draw that they all happened to be incredibly, ridiculously good looking? Or was it the food. Something in the water?

Just as he had before in the War Room, Scott reached out with long, elegant fingers and brushed them through the great white expanse of wings, face the perfect picture of wonder and marvel.

“You’re so beautiful when you fly,” he murmured in gentle amazement.

“I can take you with me,” Warren said softly, and Logan wondered if he spoke quietly to hide the desperation in his voice. He slipped his hands on either side of Scott’s face, drawing the young man’s attention away from his wings and pulling him nose to nose. “Even just for a little while.”

Scott shook his head, smiling sadly. “I have to stay here.”

“You’re going to die here,” the other man whispered fiercely.

“Someday,” Scott agreed, gripping the angel’s wrists.

“Take your time on that, okay?” Warren asked, pulling him into a tight embrace, his wings wrapping around them like a downy cocoon. Logan frowned, wondering what they were doing in there that he couldn’t see. He couldn’t smell anything suspicious, just anxiety and warmth and the salt of tears. Love and sadness mingling together, bittersweet like an old love song fading in and out through the static of a transistor radio.

“No,” Scott suddenly protested. Warren’s wings shifted high in the air, spread tall and wide. His arms were tight around Scott’s waist, who may have been struggling but he was also smiling. “Warren, no!”

Warren’s wings began beating slowly at first, powerful thrusts of air dusting up a spray of white snow and dead leaves. Faster and faster, until the two men were in the air, Scott’s arms clutching Warren’s shoulders tightly, his face buried in Warren’s neck. Faster, faster still, and then they were gone. Logan watched them from the ground, one figure in the night sky, wings spread wide as they soared across the bright, white moon.

* * *

It was two in the morning, and Logan awoke with a start. The first thing he was aware of was that he was horny, but that wasn’t exactly unusual. He was flat on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, idly rubbing himself against the mattress as his second most pressing issue became aware in his sleep addled brain: he was hungry. He’d skipped out on dinner waiting for Scott and the birdboy to return, but the two of them must’ve gone off somewhere after their flight.

He couldn’t help but feel a pang of resentment as he climbed out of bed to rummage through the clothes littering the floor in search of something reasonably clean to wear. Okay, so Warren and Scott had over a decade of history together; they’d been the first students at this school, the first X-Men on the team -- hell, they could’ve even been the first real friend that either of them had ever had. It was silly, he knew, to be bent out of shape over something he hadn’t invested the time in yet to obtain.

It didn’t mean he couldn’t be envious of how easy it was for Scott to be so open and warm around the guy. That he couldn’t be a little peeved at the fact that it had taken nearly half a bottle of whiskey for Scott to loosen up around Logan. So maybe he didn’t have all that easy charm and perhaps he wasn’t exactly a people person and maybe the kids went running in the other direction when he came down the halls, but he was loyal and protective and brave, and he had stuck around, dammit, and that was more than could be said for birdbrain.

After finding a pair of sweatpants he was sure he’d only worn a few times, he left his room and quietly made his way down the hall. Pausing by Scott’s door, he leaned close, listening and sniffing carefully, but he neither heard nor smelled any trace of the man. Frowning, he turned away from the door and stomped down the hall before he remembered that there were children here and they were sleeping, so instead he chose to angrily tiptoe the rest of the way downstairs to the kitchen.

He made a sandwich -- leaving crumbs on the counter on principle -- grabbed a can of beer from the fridge and started back to his room when he heard it.

_“It took me by surprise, I must say, when I found out yesterday…don’tcha know that I heard it through the grapevine...”_

Logan froze at the unmistakable voice of Marvin Gaye coming from the rec room, barely audible beneath layers of other voices singing over him. Quietly, he snaked down the corridor, hugging the walls as he did so, careful to be quiet.

_“...Not much longer would you be mine...oh, I heard it through the grapevine…”_

Bright artificial light spilled into the dark hallway from the television, the singing becoming louder although still turned down to a low level considerate of the sleeping children. And there was that cologne, lime and cedar, lavender and clove, and not far behind would be one Scott Summers.

_“Oh, I’m just about to lose my mind...honey, honey, yeah…”_

He peeked his head around the corner just in time to see Jeannie larger than life on the television, the breath escaping him at the sight of her. Her striking red hair was pulled into a ponytail, cheeks flushed a rosy pink from exertion. Her bangs were wet and sticking to the sides of her face with sweat. Bright green eyes sparkled as she smiled wide, laughing and singing at the same time. She was young, so young, vibrant and beautiful and his heart ached to see her this way, to know that he would never know her that way, that he would never know her again.

The camera panned out, bringing Ororo into focus and allowing Logan to see that both women were in their bras. Jean had her arm slung over the weather goddess’ shoulders, pulling her close, both of them singing into a large metal flashlight. ’Ro was just as beautiful then as she was now, her white hair shocking against her flawless coffee-with-cream colored skin. They had just hit the part of the song the female backup singers sung before turning their makeshift microphone over to -- God, was that Scott?

The Boy Scout couldn’t look anymore like a boy. In just a white tee shirt and striped blue boxers, it was clear just how tall and skinny he was, all long limbs and sharp angles; nothing close to the lean jock he resembled now. His dark hair fell over his eyes, slender fingers brushing it back and out of his ruby red glasses as he leaned forward into the flashlight. Gripping it hard in one hand, making a fist with the other, he began belting out the next verse of the song with a strong and confident voice that Logan would have never believed could come out of a boy that scrawny.

“I know a man ain’t supposed to cry! But these tears I can’t hold inside -- ”

“That’s not fair!” Jean cried, shoving Scott out of the way and grabbing the flashlight from him. “Scott can really sing!”

The two girls shrieked, the view staggering back as the cameraman hastily stood up, laughing as he followed Scott’s descent over the side of the conference table they’d been standing on.

“Oh, my God! Are you okay?”

“So there is a video?” Logan said with a smirk from behind the couch, startling the young man. Immediately, Scott fumbled for the remote, pausing the video right on Jean as she leaned over the back of the table, her pale pink panties hugging her very young bottom. Scott frowned at the view he had inadvertently given Logan before turning off the television completely, blanketing the room in darkness.

“Sorry,” Logan muttered insincerely, his eyes adjusting easily to the darkness thanks to his heightened senses. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“It’s fine,” Scott hastened to assure him. “I thought everyone was asleep.”

“Got hungry,” the older mutant offered, and then took a bite out of his sandwich. He spoke around a mouthful. “Made a sandwich.”

“I can hear that.”

Logan swallowed, coming around the side of the couch to peer down at the other mutant out of the corner of his eye. The other man’s eyes emitted a soft glow from behind his glasses, a gentle red nightlight in the dark living room. “So, uh...enjoy your flight?”

Scott looked up at him in brief surprise before glancing away and smiling fondly. “Yeah. You should have Warren take you up sometime.”

“I doubt he’d be able to carry me,” Logan scoffed dubiously.

“He has superhuman strength,” the young man informed him pleasantly.

“Of course he does,” Logan responded with a sigh. He sank down into the couch, ignoring the fact that he hadn’t been invited to sit down. He propped his feet up on the coffee table, popping open his beer with one hand and gripping his sandwich in the other. Scott remained still, his body tense, gaze directed at the television with bated breath as if waiting for Logan to make a move. Like he was going to let the Boy Scout get away that easy when he had what amounted to the fabled lost Montezuma’s treasure in his hands. “Don’t stop on my account.”

Scott let out a deep breath, hesitating briefly before reaching for the remote once more. He turned on the television, a low grumble of distaste escaping the back of his throat as Jean’s pink panty-clad ass came into view once more. Pressing play, Marvin Gaye and several young high-pitched voices exploded from the speakers in a frenzy.

A young man Logan had never seen before swooped down from the ceiling, seemingly hanging from his feet outside of the shot, grabbing Scott’s arm and hoisting him up with ease. His bright blue eyes were shining behind black-framed glasses, pale skin flushed and glowing from alcohol. He grinned broadly as he righted Scott in a leather rolling chair, mussing up the young man’s hair playfully.

“The doctor is in!” the man with glasses exclaimed, still upside down. He held his fists up in triumph. “He’s going to _live!_ ”

“Who’s that?” Logan asked.

Scott smiled fleetingly. “That’s Hank.”

“The Furball?” the old mutant exclaimed gracelessly, dropping his feet to the floor in his surprise. Logan wasn’t too keen on the ins and outs of genetic mutations, but he was fairly certain most came into their powers around puberty. The man in the video while young was definitely well past that age. “Why isn’t he, you know...blue?”

“When Styker’s Dark Cerebro attacked mutants,” Scott began, and then shrugged uncertainly, mouth open as if searching for the words, “I’m not sure if it altered some of our DNA, or just pushed some of us to our full potential, but some mutants...changed. Hank was one of them. He used to be able to control it. Now he’s just...Beast.”

“Wow,” Logan breathed, trying to reconcile the blue Beast he knew with the fresh faced young man on the television.

“Yeah,” Scott agreed, his voice gentle. “It hasn’t been easy for him.”

“People ain’t too kind to what they don’t know.”

“You expect that. You expect strangers to look at you funny, to wonder what’s wrong with you when your mutation is obvious,” the young field leader stated. “It doesn’t bother you, not really. You know they don’t know any better, or that they’re afraid. And they don’t really know you, they aren’t your friend or family, and it hurts, but not as much as when someone you love who supposedly loves you too turns their back on you.”

“Who was it?” Logan asked quietly.

“His girlfriend.”

“Bitch.”

“Yeah.”

Logan frowned, wondering what it was like for someone like Hank, who couldn’t hide his mutation. Logan had never had to worry about someone finding out about him, he just minded his own business and people generally minded theirs. Hell, even Scott could make up some excuse for the glasses, but how could you explain away what amounted to a three-hundred pound blue gorilla in a suit? It made much more sense now why Hank had taken up residence at Xavier’s School without much convincing, especially if his own girlfriend had betrayed him at his most vulnerable hour.

Scott paused the video once more. “You knew Stryker? Before?”

“I think so,” he replied, shifting uneasily on the couch. “I can’t remember him, but he seemed to remember me.”

Scott shook his head, scoffing bitterly. “He didn’t remember me.”

“What?” Logan asked, sitting up with surprise. “You knew him too?”

The young man looked at him for a long moment, and then turned back to the television. “When I was a teenager, he took me from my school. Well, Sabretooth did. He was working for Stryker, collecting mutant children.”

“Did you…” Logan began when Scott didn’t continue, and then trailed off, unable to find the words. Afraid to find the words. A teenager. They had taken this man -- they had taken that _boy_ from the video right there on the television, scrawny and pale-skinned and innocent, and done --

A sudden image came into his mind, fleeting and elusive. Sabretooth and a girl. She was fighting him, screaming, stinking of terror and pain. Her clothes were torn to shreds by unforgiving claws, brutal scratches all over her body. Logan was screaming too, trying to stop him.

Just as quickly the girl was gone, replaced with a teenaged Scott. His breath quickened to imagine a brute like that looming over the boy, large bruising hands gripping skinny wrists tightly, snarling and spitting as he bore down on Scott with his massive weight, reeking damp fur smothering and suffocating.

Logan’s claws itched at his skin, and he had to fight to keep them sheathed, the berserker rage simmering steadily right below the surface. Fear of the truth be damned, he had to know. “What did they do to you?”

Scott wasn’t going to make it that easy for him. “Nothing I didn’t survive.”

Didn’t want to talk about it. Check. Or, at least, he didn’t think it was any of Logan’s business, which hurt in a quietly profound sort of way the old mutant hadn’t experienced before. Didn’t Scott trust him? Hadn’t Logan proven his loyalty by now? Maybe he didn’t have wings, and he certainly wasn’t blue, but didn’t he deserve some kind of credit? He wanted to press the issue, but instead did what he always did best: push uncomfortable emotions down and bury them deep within.

“How did you get away?” Logan asked instead.

The young man shrugged. “Someone came and got us out, the other children and myself. There was a woman and a man; the woman worked there, she called herself Silverfox, but the man I didn’t know. I don’t know what happened to them either, they stayed behind. The...doctors, or whatever you want to call them, they’d taken my glasses and blindfolded me, so I’m not too sure of the details.”

Logan frowned, the odd feeling of déjà vu creeping up on him. He could feel a whisper of a memory calling to him, the words too soft to make out clearly. He catalogued the thought away for future contemplation, instead focusing on the conversation at hand.

“After we escaped,” the young man continued, “Charles was out there waiting for us. All of the kids went back to their homes, and I guess I could have too, but...I was living with this guy, he wasn’t very nice. So I stayed here.”

“What about your parents?” he asked.

“I don’t have any parents.”

“So, what, were you hatched?”

Scott blinked at the old mutant in surprise, the red glow behind his eyes flickering with the action. Logan held his breath, fearing he’d offended the young man before the kid suddenly broke into a crooked grin. “No, I wasn’t, as hard as I’m sure that is for you to believe.”

Scott hesitated, as if deciding how much to give away to this interloper. Logan waited patiently with bated breath, his expression open and inviting. Finally, the young man sighed with resignation, and Logan felt as if one tiny stone in the wall Scott had erected around himself shook loose. Perhaps one day he’d be allowed in with the rest of the chosen ones.

“I was in a plane crash when I was little,” Scott said. “My parents died and I ended up in a coma. Well, you wouldn’t believe how many people don’t want to adopt a brain damaged kid, so I ended up living in an orphanage.”

“Brain damage?” the other man asked curiously.

“It’s why my beams don’t turn off. They should be able to, but the part of my brain that was affected is the part that controls mutation. Found that out the hard way,” he added ruefully. “I manifested when I was thirteen. I got into a fight with some other kids. I was just so tired of being picked on, I finally fought back. Grabbed the biggest one and I beat the shit out of him. I was so angry, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to make an example out of him to all the other kids. And…suddenly I was seeing red. Red everything.”

Logan wondered if that was the last time the type-A-stick-up-his-ass-OCD freak had ever allowed himself to lose control, and thought perhaps he understood the kid a little better than he ever had before.

“I ran away and ended up with this guy named Jack,” Scott continued. “He’s the not-so-nice guy I mentioned earlier. He figured out the glasses. I’d been living on the streets blind for months and finally I could see again, and he made sure to remind me just how indebted I was to him at every possible opportunity. He wanted me to run these small jobs for him, to use my beams to break into places. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, and I owed him my life, so I did whatever he asked and just...survived.”

“Ain’t no shame in that,” Logan offered, unsure of what else to say.

“I hated myself for the things I’d do for him,” Scott spat, his jaw clenched tight, and Logan wondered exactly what it was this Jack asshole had a young and willing Scott Summers do for him. He barely suppressed a growl, swallowing a large gulp of beer instead. “I guess it was a good thing that Sabretooth came for me. It’s how I ended up here.”

Logan grunted pensively, offering his beer to the man sitting beside him, who glanced at it only briefly before accepting. He took a sip and handed it back, long fingers brushing against Logan’s with a spark of electricity.

“I don’t know why I just told you all of that,” Scott suddenly said, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He rubbed the back of his fingers against one side of his face, as if attempting to smooth the blush away. “I’m sure it was much more information than what you were looking for.”

“It’s more than I ever thought I’d get out of you,” Logan conceded, and then regretted the words instantly. Scott quirked an eyebrow. “I mean, you know...we aren’t exactly friends, that’s all.” That was worse. Quickly, he added, “Or maybe we are friends. I wouldn’t really know. I haven’t had a friend in a long time.”

Logan rolled his eyes at himself. Could he sound any more pathetic and lonely? He might as well hang a sign around his neck that read _“Lost mutant -- free to good home.”_

“Logan.” Scott was compressing a smile, obvious even in the darkness, his voice laced with surprise and amusement. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again, licking his lips and biting his bottom lip and Logan wanted to bite it too. Finally, he said, “I got you a Christmas present.”

Logan blinked in surprise. He hadn’t been expecting _that_. “You did?”

Scott shrugged. “It’s what friends do.”

The young man smiled disarmingly, a punch right to the heart, then turned back to the television, pressing play on the remote. He settled back into the cushions, also settling against Logan at the same time in a similarly casual way he might have with Warren or Hank -- with one of his friends -- pressing up against him and leaning his head against Logan’s shoulder as he had so many nights ago in the garden. The weight of the the young man was solid and reassuring against Logan’s side, and he yearned for it and wanted to run from it at the same time.

Forcing himself to relax, he refocused on the children laughing, singing, drinking and dancing on the television, a welcome distraction from the ache in his chest. Hank hung from the ceiling, happily swinging to the beat of an old eighties pop song. ’Ro held the nearly empty bottle of tequila in the air, biting into a lime wedge while adorably scrunching up her face, her curvy hips adorned only in white panties swaying to the music. She smiled into the camera with the lime wedge still in her mouth, green rind for a smile, and crossed her eyes in jest.

Warren popped into frame, handing the camera over to Jean; he was just as gorgeous as ever, his blond hair a little longer, wings fluttering anxiously as he took the bottle from ’Ro’s slender fingers and took a drink. He slung an arm around Scott’s shoulders, kissing him on the cheek with a loud smack. Scott wiped at his face with his shoulder, pushing Warren away playfully.

And then Scott was pulled into another embrace. Jean’s arm around his waist, Scott’s around her shoulders. She aimed the camera at both of them, Scott singing loudly into the lens, but her eyes were on him. Wide and open and shining and it didn’t take a fucking psychic to see how much she loved that boy.

“You’re an idiot if you didn’t think she was in love with you,” Logan stated, feeling the other man jump; he must have been dozing.

“I know Jean loved me,” he pouted in a tone perilously close to a whine, his voice laden with sleep.

“We all do. I meant then.”

The young man was pensive for a moment, before uttering softly, _“Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where little fears grow great, great love grows there.”_

“And in English?” Logan asked.

“Haven’t you been paying attention in class?” Scott chided, clucking his tongue. He yawned. “When you love someone so much, the smallest doubts can cause the greatest fears, because you’re so afraid to lose that person. At the same time, you know how great your love is, by just how scared you are.”

Scott lifted his head to look at Logan, his face surprisingly much closer than Logan would’ve thought. He felt his heart thrumming against his ribcage, his breath quickening as he tried to focus on anything but that perfect mouth. Nervously, he took a sip of his beer, pressing his lips to the mouth of the can only to find the flavor of Scott’s skin lingering there. He licked his lips, practically feeling Scott’s lips against his, warm and wet, unyielding beneath the firm pressure of a demanding kiss.

“Have you ever been scared?” Scott asked softly, his red gaze dropping to Logan’s mouth, then back up to his eyes. Logan wondered if Scott knew he could tell where the young man was looking due to his heightened eyesight, if he was used to stealing secret glances from behind his glasses.

“The Wolverine doesn’t get scared, kid,” he answered gruffly.

Suddenly Scott smiled, a knowing smirk that meant he wasn’t buying anything that Logan was selling. He shook his head with amusement, snuggling back into Logan’s side and resting his head against Logan’s shoulder once more. The field leader yawned again, his breathing evening, the dim glow behind his glasses disappearing as he closed his eyes. Logan dared to brush his cheek against soft dark hair, breathing in deeply through his nose and inhaling the scent of shampoo and snow and cologne and, below all that, Scott Summers.

“And what about Logan?” Scott whispered, startling him. “The man behind the beast. Does he ever get scared?”

Logan frowned. He’d been running scared his whole life. Running from his past, from the man he used to be: a follower who took orders implicitly, a science experiment, a murderer. As much as he wanted to know, the more he learned the more he wished he’d remained in ignorant bliss.

Running from his future too, from the life he could have. He’d never understood the point; to fall in love for what? To outlive his partner? To watch them die? And this place. Stick around here, to do what? He’d already witnessed one death, how many more would he have to withstand in his lifetime here? The children, the teachers, the X-Men -- the leader of them sitting right beside him, scaring him the most of all.

The television was now showing the deck of a boat at full sail. Scott was standing at the railing, casting a line into the ocean. His fair skin glowed in the summer sun, swimming trunks hanging dangerously low on boy-slim hips. He was a little bit older, Logan could tell; he wasn’t as scrawny, his muscles more defined, shoulders broad and strong. Charles was sitting in a lounge chair drinking a beer right from the bottle, smiling broadly as he watched his protege, eyes shining with love and joy. The camera panned to Warren, the feathers of his wings ruffling in the wind; he was also holding a beer, using the same hand to point to the camera and wink with a mischievous grin. Jean’s giggle was light and melodious from behind the lens.

Scott’s soft snoring drew his attention away from the video. Logan took the opportunity to study his face unreservedly. He was startlingly handsome, but that was nothing new. What was more surprising was just how young he was. Less than ten years older than the boy in the video, if Logan had to guess. Too young to lose a wife. Too young for children to rely on him when he was just a kid himself. Too young to risk his life saving an unappreciative world. Too young to know better.

Logan sighed as he carefully slid out from beneath the young man. He turned off the television before leaving the room. He refused to look back.

* * *

To be continued.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, just like all my stories, this has turned into a complicated monster. So, sorry if it’s taking longer than I thought to write. This story is taking me on a nice adventure!

Private James O’Grady walked calmly down the corridor, head held high, rifle hanging casually across his body by its sling. His pulse quickened at the sight of the bright red EXIT sign hanging right above the doorway at the end of the hall, the dark black of night visible through the glass. Having been several floors underground, he hadn’t been sure what time it was when he’d finally had an opportunity to escape, but he was pleasantly surprised to see he would have the added benefit of the cover of darkness.

His hand was on the handle of the door ready to push it open when there was a sudden firm grip on his arm. He spun around quickly, lifting his hand and breaking away from the person holding him while simultaneously coming around with a right cross, ready to strike.

“Whoa! Whoa!” the soldier said, taking a hasty step back. He grinned sheepishly. “Damn, O’Grady! Chill the fuck out, it’s only me.”

“You scared the shit out of me,” the young private hissed, eyes bouncing quickly between the other man’s name tag and his face. “Don’t sneak up on a guy like that, Reynolds.”

“Where you going?” Reynolds asked, taking his hat off and smoothing his hair back before putting his hat back on. “I thought it was your turn to keep an eye on the freaks.”

O’Grady swallowed down the spike of anger attempting to escape his throat. “Taking a quick cigarette break.”

The other man frowned. “Since when do you smoke?”

There was a tense pause, both men staring at one another before O’Grady smiled, his eyes flashing bright amber.

Reynolds’ eyes widened as he stepped back, scrambling for his gun hanging from the sling at his side. “Shit -- !”

Faster than the young soldier could anticipate, O’Grady grabbed the muzzle of Reynolds’ rifle, gracefully slipping behind him and taking the gun with him. He didn’t want to shoot him in the back, the gunshot would draw too much unwanted attention, so instead he pulled the sling up and around the soldier’s neck, twisting until the fabric was taut against his throat, effectively cutting off his air supply. Reynolds reacted quickly, grabbing at his neck in panic, which was stupid. Didn’t they teach these boys anything in the army? Perhaps such as when someone is trying to choke you, you should elbow them in the ribs or gouge out their eyes or kick them in the balls?

O’Grady flung Reynolds bodily against the wall, slamming his head into it so hard the plaster dented. He released his hold on the young man, his body falling to the floor with a dull thud. A quick glance in either direction to be sure the corridor was still clear -- it was -- and then O’Grady was dragging the body into a storage closet.

He leaned over the man, feet on either side of his body, faces close together as he pulled Reynolds up by his collar. Without warning, he slapped the man’s face hard, his head snapping back, then viciously tossed him into hard metal shelving, reveling in the loud crash of mops and brooms and cleaning products.

“That’s for calling me a freak,” he said, and then swung a hard, steel-toed boot into the man’s groin, satisfied at the groan of pain that followed. “And that’s for all those times you copped a feel on this _freak_.”

He quietly exited the closet and closed the door behind him, dusting his hands on his pants before exiting the building. He moved swiftly to the parking lot, lifting the set of keys and pressing the alarm button until one of the cars finally began wailing. A shitty old car, but beggars couldn’t afford to be choosers, especially those who were mutants disguised as soldiers attempting to escape a government funded laboratory.

O’Grady approached the security gate, the last hurdle, steeling himself as he drove up to the booth slowly and flashed his badge at the old gentleman inside. He offered a strained smile, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles as the barbed wire fence slowly wheeled open to a road surrounded by a dense forest. After what seemed like an eternity, he drove through, watching the gate diminish in his rear view mirror until it was gone, driving until he couldn’t see the lights of the compound illuminating the night sky, driving until he hit the highway, and then driving some more.

Easing up his grip on the steering wheel, O’Grady let out a deep breath, his body relaxing as his bulky hands slimmed into long and delicate ones, white skin darkening to a scaled blue from the tips of his fingers down his hands and wrists, his arms and neck, head and body, legs and feet. Yellow eyes flashed in the rear view mirror as Mystique adjusted it to accommodate her new height.

She drove until she found a busy rest stop, parking behind the building and shifting into another form to stop for some coffee and toast. She snatched a waitress’ apron that was hanging behind the cash register’s stand and slipped into the bathroom outside, making sure to lock the door behind her. Once shifted back into her true form, she took the magnetic name tag from the apron and waved the magnet over her bare skin, up and down the length of her body, searching.

“Come on,” she muttered. “I know you’re in there.”

Abruptly, the magnet stuck to the inside of her left forearm. _Bingo_. She raised her eyes to the mirror in front of her, wrapping her hand in the apron before slamming her fist into it, an explosion of glittering shards of glass littering the sink and floor. She grabbed the sharpest one from inside the sink with bloody knuckles, carefully tracing a line down her arm, stifling a scream as she pressed in deep.

Red blood ran from the wound, and she bitterly spat between clenched teeth, _“If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die?”_

Deeper still, she pressed, until the glass scraped against something solid and metal. She threw the glass aside, trembling fingers digging into her flesh until she pulled out the tracking device that had been implanted under her skin. She grabbed a fistful of paper towels, pressing them into her wound as she tossed the tracking device into the toilet. She flushed with her foot on the handle, snarling into the swirling waters as she watched the device disappear.

 _“And if you wrong us,”_ she finished, breathing hard, _“shall we not revenge?”_

If she had her way, they wouldn’t know it was coming until it was too late. But she would make sure they knew it was her.

* * *

Henry McCoy could remember when extracting DNA from a buccal swab was as easy to do as obtaining low-hanging fruit. He could remember a time when was able to hold delicate test tubes without worrying about them bursting beneath the excessive strength of his hands. He could remember when his large, blue, clawed fingers weren’t too big to program the centrifuge without clumsily pressing several other buttons in the process.

Most of all, he could remember when being in his lab was fulfilling, when he could stay down there for hours happily cataloguing mutant DNA or concocting medicines or inventing new defenses with which to apply to the Blackbird until Trish would call and ask when he was coming home to bed with that sultry tone in her voice edged with just a hint of sleepiness, the sexiest sound he’d ever heard.

Now, he just felt like an ogre hiding within the comfort of his watchtower. His really clean, expensive watchtower.

Hank and Trish had been dating on and off for two years before Dark Cerebro had permanently changed him into...this. She had been aware of his mutation, had seen it on several occasions, and had always assured him it didn’t matter to her, that she loved him for who he was on the inside.

 _I’m a reporter,_ she’d said, her smile gentle as she trailed fingertips down his bare shoulder as they lie in bed. Spears of morning light snuck in through the blinds, illuminating her dark raven hair. _It’s my job to find the truth, Hank, and the truth is always in here._

Her hand had been so small on his chest.

The newspaper article that had been printed after his permanent change had hurt him even though it had been written to defame Trish, using words like 'bestiality' to describe their relationship. (They’d referenced it a total of three times, in case one didn’t understand what they were inferring the first two instances.) Trish had been so angry when she’d read it; she had screamed obscenities that would have made a sailor blush, throwing household objects, calling her reporter connections to protest, even contacting a lawyer to see what legal consequences there were. All while comforting Henry, while assuring him what a jerk Rick Womack and his bogus anti-mutant newspaper were, while making sure he knew he was still a _man_ , not an animal. They had made love twice, setting a date for the following evening to celebrate their two year anniversary.

Henry hadn’t felt more confident in his new skin than when he was getting ready for their date, putting on his custom made suit built to hang perfectly from his new bulkier frame. He’d walked towards the front door, catching his reflection in a decorative mirror and smiling as he grabbed his keys out of the bowl on the table in the hall. He’d been about to leave, hand on the knob, when he remembered his cell phone.

That’s when he saw the voicemail. She didn’t even have the nerve to do it in person. Even over the phone would have been better. At least it hadn’t been a text message.

He wondered now, as he often did, if there was something different he could have done to stop Trish from breaking up with him. Perhaps all that time spent wallowing in self pity and allowing himself to be comforted by her, he should have offered _her_ a little bit of reassurance. He just hadn’t thought --

A soft crackling of paper caught his sensitive ears, drifting through the air gently from outside of the room he was currently working in. Quietly, he stood up, frowning as he stepped into the hallway of the medlab. He listened intently and sniffed the air; someone was hastily rummaging through something, and there was definitely the sharp tang of blood. Perhaps one of the students was hurt? Either embarrassed by his injury or not wanting to get in trouble for doing something stupid that had resulted in his injury?

Cautiously, he followed the noise and blood scent to the storage closet, hesitating only briefly before knocking gently.

“Hello?” he called, and the rustling suddenly stopped. “It’s Dr. McCoy. I know you’re hurt, I can help you.” Silence. “Let me just take a look, all right? I’m going to open the door now.”

He carefully opened the door, startling when a body fell into him. Hastily, he caught the young man, kneeling to gently lay him down on the floor.

“Scott?” Henry exclaimed in surprise, eyes quickly assessing the young man’s injuries. His face was pale, a light sheen of sweat making his fair skin glisten. There were contusions on his neck, clearly made from the harsh grip of bruising fingers, and his arm was seeping thick red blood, a thread and needle hanging from the wound. Henry glanced at the closet; it was nearly turned upside down, supplies and blood everywhere. “What on Earth are you…?”

Suddenly the man in his arms shifted, body morphing, skin rolling and surging like the waves of a sea. Logan, then Rogue, and then, for one inexplicable moment, Jean Grey. She gripped his shoulder with her uninjured arm, eyes pleading, face contorted in pain. Red hair turned orange, pale skin blue, clothes disappearing to reveal protruding ribs from obvious starvation, more abrasions and bruises visible even against her dark skin.

His heart was pounding. “Raven.”

“Henry,” Mystique uttered weakly. She was looking up at him with pleasant surprise as she reached up with one hand to trace the angle of his cheekbone. “How nice to finally see you,” she said, right before her eyelashes fluttered closed.

* * *

“We’re very sorry about that,” Sophie Cuckoo was saying with great remorse, standing in front of Scott’s desk in his classroom. She peeked up at him from beneath her eyelashes, nervously twisting a tendril of blond hair around her finger. “We didn’t mean to write the same essay, we were just all in the library doing our homework, and you know when we’re so close together sometimes we just – ”

“Please, Sophie, I understand,” Scott responded, holding up his hand placatingly. His eyes traveled over the five identical siblings standing before him. “They don’t call you girls the Five-in-One for nothing. Just next time, maybe try to do your homework on opposite sides of the library, not all at one table so your telepathy doesn’t interfere.”

“We’ll make sure to have it turned in tomorrow,” an exact replica of the first girl stated, smiling apologetically as she bounced up and down on her heels. “We’re really very sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Scott insisted, as he spotted Logan hovering in the doorway holding a single sheet of paper. Immediately, he felt his heartbeat speed up, a restless fluttering in his stomach, heat in his cheeks that he was sure were turning as scarlet as his ruby quartz glasses. Quietly, he cleared his throat, wondering the exact moment he’d regressed into the same anxious teenager that would nearly puke any time Jean came near; the stuttering, awkward thing that couldn’t even get out a sentence when she would speak to him. As that mortifyingly hormone-overrun teenaged self had often been prone to do, at least Adult Scott didn’t spring wood at the most inopportune moments anymore (such as when Jean would throw her arm around his shoulder, or talk to him, or be in the same room as him, or happen to cross his mind).

The young field leader was actually surprised to see Logan, part of him hopeful and another part timid. The man hadn’t shown up to class that morning, leaving Scott to wonder if he’d crossed some kind of invisible boundary in the rec room the night before. Scott may not have been great at reading people, some may have even accused him of obliviousness (Warren), but he’d been so sure that he had heard the disdain in Logan’s voice at the mention of Warren taking him up for a flight, the uncertainty coupled with longing as he admitted to not knowing whether or not Scott was his friend, the tenderness with which he’d brushed his cheek against Scott’s hair when he thought Scott wasn’t paying attention.

It had been terrifying to lean up against Logan like that on the couch, his heart pounding so hard as he steeled his nerves and forced himself to relax. Scott had been so comfortable, felt so safe and relaxed for the first time in a long time -- since the children had been taken, since _he’d_ been taken -- he’d fallen asleep nearly instantly. And then he’d woken up alone, cramped into the corner of the leather couch where Logan’s solid form should have been. A little disappointed, but not concerned, at least, not until Logan hadn’t shown up for class. Perhaps he was here now to offer some kind of excuse. Maybe he’d overslept, or had been sent on a mission Scott didn’t know about, run some kind of errand for Charles.

Or maybe he was here to tell Scott he was done with English literature, done with this whole school after Scott’s clumsy, awkward, and definitely unwanted advances. His stomach lurched at the thought, and he quickly recalled his field training, to not get ahead of himself, to take a deep breath and calm down. Cool, level headed, ready.

“Girls,” Scott said firmly, standing to indicate it was time to go. They’d been apologizing for nearly ten minutes now. “You’d better get going or you’ll be late for dinner.”

“Thanks for being so understanding, Mr. Summers,” Mindee cooed.

“Okay.” Scott forced a smile, his eyes on Logan as he moved to the side of his desk, the girls swarming around him like tiny blond bees in short skirts. Logan quirked an eyebrow, smirking with obvious amusement as he casually leaned in the door frame.

“Maybe we can schedule a tutoring lesson later?” Phoebe piped up – or was that Celeste again? She smiled up at him sweetly, her brown eyes big and round. “A private tutoring lesson?”

“Tutoring?” Scott blurted, surprised. What could anyone possibly need tutoring in The Great Gatsby for? Not to mention they’d just finished reading it; now the girls wanted tutoring? He shook his head dismissively. “Listen, we’ll talk about this in class tomorrow, all right? I’m sure I can clear anything up then. If not, then we’ll schedule a tutoring session.”

“Thank you, Mr. Summers!”

“Yeah, thanks!”

“Okay,” Scott said again, indicating the door. “I have another meeting, girls, please.”

The girls glanced at Logan, noticing him for the first time, and finally took their cue to exit, clutching their books to their chests and giggling as they nearly shoved him out of the doorway in their haste to get by. The older mutant scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“They sure got it bad, Summers,” Logan murmured, his smile teasing as he approached. Scott frowned, his expression reflecting his puzzlement. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Well, they might’ve all handed in the same essay hoping I’d let it slide, but they were clearly mistaken,” Scott explained, sitting back down at his desk. He shuffled through some of the papers on his desk, feigning nonchalance but inside he was unreasonably nervous. “They seemed apologetic enough, although I’m not sure their request for tutoring was sincere. The Great Gatsby isn’t exactly a difficult read. I think they were just trying to get on my good side.”

“They’re trying to get on something, all right,” Logan quipped.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Scott asked, pausing to look up at the other man with perplexity.

“Come on, Cyclops,” Logan urged, meeting his gaze, his ability to do so still unnerving to Scott. It had taken years for some of his closest friends to be able to do so, and yet there Logan was, gone more than he was here at the school, able to look him in the eye. He wondered if it had to do with his heightened senses, or maybe he just paid more attention than Scott gave him credit for. “Don’t tell me you don’t see through the song and dance. Those girls were all over you.”

“You know, you sound just like Jean.” Scott pointed at Logan accusingly. “She always used to say the girls in class were more interested in me than the subject matter. I’ve thought about it, and it just doesn’t make any sense. I’m way too old for them, for one thing. I’m their teacher, for another; I would never cross those boundaries and betray their trust. And I don’t really understand how staying after class and asking me questions means they’re attracted to me.”

“What about the _private_ tutoring?”

“I’m obviously lacking in some kind of teaching skills to have the most requests for private tutoring,” Scott countered. “As a matter of fact, I’ve been reading up in the library on more effective communication. Besides, why would they want to spend hours alone with me going over the course material if they didn’t need help?”

Logan blinked. “You really are oblivious, aren’t you? I could smell it on those girls from the doorway. I can smell it on ninety percent of the girls every day in class. Well, except Jubilee. She thinks you’re gross. Care to explain that?”

“I have no idea why Jubilee thinks I’m gross. What does that smell like, exactly?”

“I meant explaining that I can smell their crazy teenaged pheromones billowing out of them like smokestacks whenever you walk into the room.” Logan sat at the edge of Scott’s desk, his boot heel gently scuffing the front. “And Jubilee doesn’t think you’re gross, exactly. She just thinks of you like an older brother. Now these other girls – they definitely _don’t_ think of you like an older brother. Well, not like a sister is supposed to think of a brother, anyway. Unless they’re from West Virginia.”

“That is an incredible representation of stereotyping. Do you mind if I use it in my World Cultures class?”

“As long as you give me credit.”

“Why are you here?” Scott asked finally, and then indicated the paper in Logan’s hand with a flick of his head. “Come to deliver a note from the school nurse to explain your absence today?”

Logan grinned, crooked and mischievous, his eyes flashing for the briefest of moments, and Scott swallowed down the butterflies attempting to escape his stomach. “No. But I’ll make sure the furball knows you called him that. I had a meeting with the professor. He keeps trying to convince me to get a certificate or some shit so I can teach the kids.”

“Really?” the young man asked, his voice laced with surprise and excitement. “What does he want you to teach?”

“Physical education,” he replied, and then hesitated briefly. “But he wants me to work in some self-defense and outdoor survival training.”

As it stood, they didn’t currently have a P.E. program. Scott and Ororo had taken turns running the class, but the rapid growth of the student body had forced them to eliminate any non-core classes, which meant no more gym (or art, or music). There just wasn’t enough teachers to go around. Sure, the teachers spent time with the children after school hours, coaching form in the weight room, going on runs, playing flag football, but it wasn’t required, and most students didn’t participate, especially the ones that needed it.

Logan would be a welcome addition to the teaching staff, and his extensive military experience would add an invaluable edge to the curriculum. The older mutant might not remember where he had acquired most of it, but he had a wealth of knowledge about tactics and logistics and survival that Scott had only seen in the most seasoned war veterans. Certainly, it would make Scott feel better knowing the kids would be more prepared in case they ever needed to defend themselves again -- inside or outside of the school grounds. Undoubtedly, it would empower the children, allowing them to have a say in their own safety and give them a sense of security. Really, Scott couldn’t see anything but positives in this decision.

“Logan, that’s great,” Scott stated enthusiastically, but one look at the other man immediately alerted him to the fact that Logan didn’t exactly agree. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he replied casually, shrugging. “I’m not doing it.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t want to. I’ll just stick to resident repairman. I’m good at that.”

“You could be good at this,” Scott insisted. “You’ll never know if you don’t try. I’ll help you come up with a course syllabus. I’m sure there’s plenty of literature in the library we could -- ”

“Cool it, nerd. You don’t have to worry about it,” he said dismissively, and then suddenly appeared uncomfortable, fidgeting with the paper still clutched in his hands. He folded it in half and then folded it again, unfolding it just to start all over again. Scott had never seen Logan as anything other than confident and crass, was he...was Logan actually nervous? “Kids are...well, you know. The ones here...they don’t like me.”

Scott’s lips curved into an amused smile as he spoke. “Don’t tell me the big, bad Wolverine is afraid of a bunch of kids.”

Logan turned away, snarling. “I told you last night, Wolverine ain’t afraid of nothing. I just don’t want to do it. If that old man wants those kids to learn how to defend themselves, he needs to get somebody who can teach them right, not some amateur cage fighter that wandered in off the streets.”

The realization that Logan wasn’t afraid of the children, but that he was afraid of _failing_ the children, made Scott’s chest tighten painfully. He exhaled sharply, reaching forward to place a hand on Logan’s thigh and squeezing comfortingly. “Hey -- ”

“Look, I didn’t come here to talk about that,” he interrupted gruffly, shifting away from Scott’s touch. The young man snatched his hand back, wondering if once again he’d pushed too far. “I came here to give you this.”

Scott eyed the piece of paper offered to him briefly before taking it with wary hands, unfolding it and peering down at the single sentence written on the page. His heart hammered in his chest as he read the words again and again.

“You’re gonna catch flies in your mouth if you don’t close it.”

The young field leader snapped his jaw shut, blinking up at the older man in surprise. “Is this your essay?”

“Yeah.”

Scott cleared his throat, composing himself before calmly pushing the paper across the desk and back to Logan. He forced himself not to read into what it could mean. Logan probably just felt bad about missing class that morning, or maybe he was trying to absolve himself of some kind of guilt for turning Charles down. It’s not like it was a complete essay; it was just one hastily written sentence.

“Despite the fact that this is the first essay you’ve ever turned in,” Scott began, “and I can’t even begin to express how much that is appreciated, I can’t accept this.”

“Why not?” Logan asked, clearly affronted.

“Because ‘Gatsby is an idiot,’ is not an adequate answer for an essay,” Scott responded.

“It’s true.”

“Be that as it may,” the young teacher stated, “I’m going to need it to be a bit longer.”

Logan seemed to consider this. “Okay. Gatsby is a _huge_ idiot.”

“Logan -- ”

 _Forgive the interruption,_ they both heard Charles call telepathically, his voice as impassive as ever. Logan frowned, cocking an eyebrow and looking up at the air, eyes searching disdainfully at the mental intrusion. _Your presence is required in the War Room to attend to an urgent matter._

Scott sighed, shuffling his papers together and placing them into a neatly labeled manila folder, then placing that into its proper place in his leather messenger bag. “I hope we get back in time for me to finish grading these before class tomorrow.”

“You think we’ll be out all night?” Logan asked, following Scott into the hallway and waiting for him to lock the door. “I was hoping to go for a ride later.”

“You never know,” Scott sighed, and the two men fell into step easily as they made their way to the elevators. “You don’t have time for a ride anyway. You need to finish that paper.”

“I don’t think I’m going to do that.”

“Fine,” Scott conceded with thinly veiled patience. “Then at least tell me why you think Gatsby is an idiot.”

“You’re joking, right?” Logan asked rhetorically, his hands moving wildly as he spoke. “He goes through all this trouble doing illegal shit to get money, buys a huge fucking house on a lake, throws all these fancy parties – and for what? To impress Daisy? She’s a bitch! Why would you want to be with someone that needed all that to be with you? It’s not even about the money, it’s about the status, and Gatsby don’t got it, he’ll never have it. Tom’s got it, but Gatsby’s too stupid in love to realize it. God, and she’s such a terrible mother, treating her daughter like she’s a doll and hoping she’ll grow up to be a – what did she call it?”

“A fool,” Scott offered, impressed to know that Logan had not only read the book, but had actually paid attention to the story.

“Yeah, hoping she’ll grow up to be a fool, so she can find some rich idiot to take care of her too,” Logan spat. “What the hell does he see in her anyway? This book is stupid.”

“It’s about class and status,” Scott clarified, compressing a smile. “About what gives you that status, about if you can obtain status. And if you can’t, can you transcend class to find happiness? Gatsby couldn’t.”

“But whose fault was that?” Logan asked. “His or Daisy’s?”

They stepped into the elevator, the shiny metal doors closing and reflecting the two men standing inside. Scott stood tall, shoulders back, his clothes tailored neatly to his long, slim frame. Without a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his crisply pressed shirt and perfectly creased pants, he took pride in his conservative image, an image that reflected self assurance and status, an image of a man that had it together. (Even if, perhaps, on the inside, there was still a young, insecure boy needing structure and rules to combat the uncertainty and chaos that was his life, still waiting to feel like a grown up at the age of twenty-eight. All the more reason his image was so important.)

Logan, on the other hand, with his threadbare, ripped jeans, a plaid flannel shirt over a tank top undershirt that had probably been white at some point but was now slightly beige in color (hadn’t the guy ever heard of bleach?), and his unruly finger-combed hair and scruffy unkempt beard was the antithesis to Scott’s composed appearance. Even his bulky, furred body was a contrast to Scott’s tall, lean frame.

The physical differences were just as stark as their divergent personalities.  Scott always carefully considered all of his decisions, thought before speaking (eloquently), picked up the errant toys recklessly left behind by the children rather than stepping over them, and tended to wash his laundry on a regular basis. Logan, on the other hand, was brash and ill-tempered, prone to making emotional knee-jerk reaction decisions and communicating mainly by grunts and snarls. He drank a lot of beer, didn’t ever clean his room, constantly stank of cigar smoke, and was about as difficult to put up with as a belligerent toddler on a sugar rush in desperate need of a nap.

And Scott _still_ wanted to kiss him? He considered this. Yes, yes he did.

Still carefully studying Logan’s reflection, Scott asked, “Do you think it’s possible for someone so different to make a place for themselves, if both parties are willing to try?”

Logan smirked almost imperceptibly, arching an eyebrow. “Like a loner joining a team of stuck up do-gooders, for example?”

“I guess you can use that as an example, yes.”

“Depends on how annoying the team is,” Logan mused, shrugging casually. “Specifically the team leader.”

“What if the team leader has some redeeming qualities?” Scott asked, as the elevator came to a stop. The doors silently opened to the hallway leading directly to the War Room.

“Haven’t met one yet that does,” the older mutant retorted, exiting the elevator without a second glance back. Scott compressed a smile, shaking his head and sighing deeply before following the tall, bulky mutant out.

Inside the meeting room, Ororo was already settled at the conference table with Charles, a coffee pot and cups in front of each of them, a few empty extra cups nearby. Even if the presence of coffee probably meant it was going to be a long night, Scott inhaled the scent greedily, never one to decline a cup of coffee. Especially the kind that ’Ro always had: dark and rich and strong -- and _expensive_ , but no one ever said being the adopted children of a billionaire didn’t have its perks.

As they bade their greetings, ’Ro pushed a steaming cup of coffee towards Scott when he sat down -- milk with no sugar, just the way he liked it, and something had to be said for people who knew you. He breathed gratefully, “Thank you.”

“Would you like some coffee, Logan?” she asked, graceful fingers indicating the pot of coffee on the table. “I just brewed it.”

He sniffed the air carefully, eyes on her cup as he did so. “You sure that’s coffee, or napalm?”

Charles cut in with a gentle smile, “’Ro is nothing if not famous for the pride she takes in her coffee, even if it is worth its weight in gold.”

She smiled knowingly. “Some of us have our fast cars,” -- that said with a glance at Scott -- “some of us have our fancy microscopes,” -- she indicated the empty chair where Hank would have been -- “and some of us have taste.” She shrugged elegantly, taking a delicate sip of coffee and reveling in its flavor. _“Ahh.”_

Logan took the proffered cup, sniffing the coffee before taking a tentative sip. He coughed immediately, leaning forward in his chair. ’Ro’s eyes sparkled with amusement as she peered at him over her cup of coffee. He frowned, arching an eyebrow, suitably impressed, then took another sip.

“Are we waiting on Hank?” Scott asked with a glance at the empty chair.

“No,” Charles replied. “He is currently occupied in the medlab.”

Suddenly, his expression turned solemn, indicating the seriousness of the meeting; it always frustrated Scott how the Professor could do that, how he could turn “on” and “off” at the drop of a hat. Making a joke about coffee one moment and then getting down to business the next. He was never able to tell if it was a mechanism Charles used to protect those whom he still considered his students from worrying too much, or if he was just very adept at compartmentalizing. Sometimes, Charles seemed so untouchable; perhaps it would be nice to be able to read him once in a while, especially if it was something they _should_ worry about.

“We had an unexpected visitor drop in this evening,” the older man announced after a moment. The three mutants quickly shifted in their seats, and one didn’t need telepathy or a heightened sense of smell to sense the sudden spike of apprehension in the room. “A mutant,” he quickly continued, “claiming to have escaped from a government facility located in upstate New York.”

“Is he going to be all right?” ’Ro asked, her brown eyes shining with worry.

“She,” Charles corrected, and for one brief moment his expression clouded with a kind of pain Scott didn’t recognize; something deep and profound. It was gone as suddenly as it appeared. “She will recover. Physically, at least.”

“How did she know where to find us?” Logan cut in. “Is she a former student?”

“Not quite,” Charles stated. “She is an old friend of mine. She made sure she wasn’t followed.”

“Doesn’t mean she didn’t give our location away while she was there,” Logan countered, his fingers drumming anxiously on the table.

“She assures me she didn’t divulge any information regarding the X-Men or our underground facilities while in their custody,” Charles told them. “However, they already knew about the school.”

“We’re not exactly a secret,” Scott said with a hint of disdain. “Especially after the media shit storm that followed the raid last winter.”

Before the invasion of General Stryker and his men, the school was only known through the grapevine as a place where high risk mutants in need of assistance could go for help. Once the media had gotten wind of a school full of children violently subdued by a government funded covert operative (rogue or not), there had been nearly twenty-four hour coverage in the news for weeks on end. At first, Scott had been satisfied to see public outcry over the mistreatment of mutants, to see the President of the United States squirm under the harsh questioning and brutal criticism of the press. And while he could still concede that it was a step forward in recognizing mutant rights, the fact that everyone and their mother now knew exactly what Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters was and where it was located did pose a little bit of a problem in regards to security.

“What did she say is the purpose of this facility?” ’Ro asked, her voice tentative, as if she were afraid of the answer.

“She believes they are trying to create a weapon to use our abilities against us,” he divulged.

“What kind of weapon?” Scott asked.

“She isn’t sure, but they were interested in not only her DNA, but the information she possesses based on her identity. This leads me to believe they are not creating this weapon as a precautionary measure, but rather as a means to attack first.”

“Just spill it, Chuck,” Logan spat with impatience. “Who is she?”

“Mystique.” There was a collective murmur of uneasiness throughout the room. Charles quickly continued, “She came here because she knows she can trust us.”

“We can’t trust _her_ ,” Scott rallied, and Logan agreed with a nod of his head.

“Do not forget who it was that aided in our escape from Stryker’s men,” Charles bit back with uncharacteristic force.

“Because she had her own agenda!” Scott insisted. “We were only an afterthought, Professor, you know that, which I’m sure is the case now.”

“She didn’t come here seeking anything but medical care,” Charles said. “She is willing to disclose all the information she has so we can conduct our own investigation into the matter.”

“How do we know this isn’t a trap?” ’Ro asked gently.

Charles’ eyes traveled over the three mutants before him. “Perhaps you should see for yourselves.”

* * *

Mystique looked, quite frankly, like shit. She was lying on the hospital bed, blue skin stark against the white sheets, her usually strong and lean body thin and frail. There were faint bruises on her neck and arms, although it was hard to tell whether they were fresh or fading due to her skin color. A long laceration on her forearm had been sutured, another wound on her shoulder bandaged, but any other injuries on her body were covered by a blanket.

Hank was currently busy worrying himself with her IV, setting the machine and checking her vitals almost compulsively, his bright yellow eyes constantly darting back to her with clear worry. The professor sat on the other side of her, quietly conversing back and forth with the doctor about her status.

Logan stood in the hallway outside the window of the exam room, Scott and ’Ro on either side of him. He leaned closer to Scott, “When did that love triangle start?”

“A long time ago,” Scott confessed quietly. “Long before I was here.”

“Just how old is Mystique?” Logan blurted, surprised.

“Her mutation slows her aging considerably, like yours,” he replied. “I’m pretty sure she’s almost as old as the professor.”

“Damn.”

“Says the old man,” ’Ro murmured beside him. Logan offered her a glare, but the weather goddess only smiled serenely in return.

“What are you thinking?” Logan asked Scott. The young man was staring intently into the room, jaw clenched, one arm crossed over his chest and the fist of his other hand pressed against his mouth.

Scott let out a deep breath. “I think if Mystique and the Brotherhood were trying to trick us, there are easier ways than this.”

“Why do you think she didn’t go running back to Magneto?” Logan asked.

Scott shrugged. “Evil lairs are usually lacking in state-of-the-art medical facilities. She would have had to explain too much to a hospital. Or maybe they had some kind of falling out.”

“What are we going to do?” that, from ’Ro.

“Some recon first. We’re not just going to burst in there, guns blazing, without knowing what we’re up against,” the young field leader responded. “The facility should be easy enough to find with Mystique’s intel and our satellite capabilities. We’ll let her rest for now, we don’t need any information she has just yet.”

Logan nodded. “You think she’ll be be willing to help us?”

“I don’t want her help,” Scott told him. “Despite what Charles thinks, we _can’t_ trust her, at least not on the team. I have no idea whether or not she’ll follow my orders, or go rogue and endanger the mission and get us all killed. She’s pissed and she’ll want revenge, and that’s a very dangerous combination on a team. We need to move quickly while she’s still recovering so she can’t unknowingly get in our way.”

“When are we leaving?” Logan asked.

“Tonight.”

* * *

The facility was located deep within one of the national forests of upstate New York, close to the Canadian border. It had been nearly effortless to locate via satellite and utility usage (that sucker had lit up on the grid like fireworks on the Fourth of July). Scott and ’Ro landed the Blackbird several miles away with the intent to hike through the forest on foot in order to avoid being sighted, because while the jet may not have been able to be picked up on radar, it was still a huge craft that was hard to miss if seen by the naked eye of a guard in a tower.

Once safely landed, and after carefully uncurling his fingers from the death grip he’d applied on the arms of his chair, Logan unbuckled his seatbelt and exited the plane behind Scott. Ororo stood in the entryway, having been ordered to stay behind in the jet should the need arise for them to require a swift takeoff, although she would be offering the cover of a thunderstorm.

“We’ll check in every thirty minutes,” Scott instructed the Storm Queen. “If an hour goes by between communications, leave without us. Logan and I will stay together, but if we happen to get separated and only one of us returns to the plane, and you don’t hear from the other within thirty minutes, you will leave. It’s at your discretion if you believe you need to leave for any other reason, with or without us. Clear?”

“You got it,” she agreed. She looked up to the heavens, her eyes ghosting over white as a sudden wind picked up. Dark clouds began swiftly rolling in, lightning flashing and thunder booming followed by the gentle mist of rain. “I’ll pick up the rain after an hour.”

Scott nodded. “Thanks.”

By the time it had started pouring, they were well on their way to the facility. Logan wasn’t sure how well Scott could see behind that red visor, unless Hank had built some kind of night vision capabilities into it, but Logan’s heightened eyesight allowed him to see well in the dark. (Hank claimed it was due to the structure of his eye, specifically that he could open his iris very wide in the dark to let in as much light as possible. More specifically, there was something about rods and cones and some kind of highly reflective thing in the back of his eyes that made them glow when light shined into them in the dark. Logan probably should have paid attention when Hank was examining them, but he was more focused on the beer he’d been promised when they were done.)

Still, it wasn’t as well as he would’ve liked to see -- definitely not as well as he could see in the daylight -- and the rain only hindered his vision even further. Not to mention the fact that it was dampening his sense of smell, pervading his nostrils with the stench of mud and rotting wood and wet animal fur. It was making him increasingly more anxious the further into the woods they ventured, his claws itching beneath his skin, begging to come out. An incredible feeling of protectiveness was creeping up the back of his brain as his eyes darted between the woods around them and the man in front of him.

“Was it really necessary for it to rain?” Logan asked presently, tripping over a branch as they climbed through the dense foliage. Sounding a little too worried to his own ears, he quickly added, “There’s water in my boots.”

“Rain reduces perception,” Scott informed him. “Especially at night. When light hits raindrops, only some of it passes through. The rest scatters randomly, therefore blocking some of the light. Less illumination falling on an object means the object appears darker and has lower contrast.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Wizard,” Logan scoffed. “But did it have to be _cold_?”

“Less heat means less of a chance we’ll be picked up by thermal imaging.”

“Which won’t matter if we freeze to death.”

“Relax, Wolverine. The suits are insulated.”

“Do you have an answer for everything?” the older mutant grouched.

Scott stopped suddenly, crouching low in the brush, his gaze a soft red glow in the darkness. Logan came up beside him, listening intently while his heightened eyesight tried to pick up whatever it was that had given Scott pause. The young man leaned closer to Logan, as if to share something with him, causing Logan to lean in as well, eyes still trained on their surroundings.

“Yes,” Scott whispered, and then quickly moved forward, but not before Logan caught sight of a whisper of a smile on the field leader’s lips.

Logan rolled his eyes, sighing as clambered after the other man. They continued for another hour, crossing carefully through the forest until they came to the bottom of a hill. A soft glow illuminated the night sky above it, indicating they had reached their destination. Carefully, they climbed up, staying low to the ground and finding themselves on the other side of a barbed wire fence. A quarter mile beyond lay a very official looking building with small square windows and gray walls, the property punctuated with bright floodlights.

“We made it to the gate, Storm,” Scott said quietly into his telecommunicator.

“Copy.”

There was a guard’s booth to the right near the gated entrance to the compound, a drive leading to a parking lot in front of the building. Currently, there was a large black vehicle similar to a van or bus with wire mesh fitted over the windows idling at the entrance. Several armed soldiers stood expectantly in front of a garage door entrance that had been rolled up, awaiting the bus’ arrival.

“Those aren’t rifles,” Logan said, an overwhelming feeling of dread washing over him.

Scott let out an unsteady breath. “I know.”

They were tranquilizer guns. Meant to subdue, not kill.

The gate wheeled open slowly, followed by the bus shifting gears and driving into the perimeter. It stopped near the garage but didn’t enter, lights dimming as the engine cut off. The driver exited, a man in military fatigues holding a clipboard. He conversed with one of the soldiers briefly, and then pulled out a set of keys to open the back door of the bus.

“Shit,” Logan hissed, as the soldier pulled the first passenger out. She couldn’t have been more than four feet tall, her hands cuffed in front of her with zipties. She was wearing a pink jacket with fur lining the hood, and if her mother were there she probably would have made sure the girl was wearing it in all this rain. Roughly, another soldier grabbed her arm and shoved her towards the garage, and Logan couldn’t stop the growl from releasing from the back of his throat. “Cyclops…”

“I know.”

Another child was pulled from the bus, crying so hard they could see his little body shaking from here. He was wearing pajamas. He wasn’t wearing any shoes.

Children. They were just children, maybe six of them, none of them older than ten years old. Scott had to have known the terror, the confusion these children were feeling at being taken from their homes, their schools, their shopping malls. He had to have known what would happen to them in there, the same things that had happened to Mystique. The same bruises on their necks, burns on their bodies, needle marks on their skin.

The same things that had happened to Scott, all those years ago.

“Scott.”

 _“I know.”_ The field leader was breathing hard now as they corralled the children and began leading them inside. “This is supposed to be a recon only,” he said, but he sounded more like he was trying to convince himself than Logan.

“Some of those kids might not be here when we come back.”

“Damn it,” Scott breathed, and shook his head. He pressed the “X” on his uniform collar, speaking with quiet urgency. “Storm, we have to go in. Stay with the jet. Remember what I said.”

“Cyclops -- ”

 _“Remember what I said,”_ he repeated fiercely.

Reluctantly: “Copy.”

“What’s the plan?” Logan asked.

“We have to take out the guard’s booth first,” Scott stated. “I can do that with my blasts. I’ll hit the perimeter over there, surrounding the building. The explosions will distract them long enough for you to get a head start running across the field. I’ll cover you once they spot you. When you get close, you do what you have to do to protect those kids. I’ll try to take out as many guards as I can while keeping the front gate clear.”

Logan extended his claws. “Ready when you are.”

Scott offered him one last glance before nodding once. “Go.”

Logan stood swiftly and sliced through the fence like a hot knife through butter, pushing back the metal and stepping through with Scott right on his heels. He didn’t wait as the field leader adjusted his sights with a practiced flick of his hand, Logan’s long legs pumping hard as he ran across the front of the property. He was already a quarter of the way to the bus when the guard’s booth exploded.

All the soldiers turned toward the booth with their guns raised. There was another series of explosions as Scott blasted holes a few yards apart in the grounds closest to the fence, continuing to distract the soldiers. An alarm sounded as they opened fire in the direction of the explosions, only noticing Logan when he was already halfway across the front of the property.

He kept running as the bullets flew by. Red, concussive force blasted one of the soldiers firing at him, then another, and another. Logan didn’t have the luxury being able to turn to see just how far away Scott was since he was presently focusing on dodging bullets, but if the young man was still standing by the front entrance to the compound then Logan was thoroughly impressed by the accuracy of his aim.

Once he’d approached the bus, he rolled in front of it, coming up behind a soldier aiming from behind the hood and running him through the chest with his claws. Guarded by two soldiers, the children were crouched down behind the bus, hands covering their ears, screaming and crying in fear.

“Get down!” he screamed to the kids, although he doubted they could hear him through their blind terror. One of the soldiers shot him with a tranquilizer gun, the needle hitting him directly in the shoulder. His body immediately metabolized it and he charged forward, cleanly slicing the soldier’s throat. Blood sprayed from the wound like a warm mist, raining down on some of the children, who shrieked in horror.

The next soldier shot him in the chest with a bullet, metal tearing through his flesh. He grunted in pain as his body took the hit, but he pressed forward. Another bullet, then another, confusion and dread dawning in the young soldier’s eyes when Logan didn’t go down.

“What the fuck -- !” the kid began, before Logan stabbed him through the gut, twisting upwards until the man slid from his claws to the ground in a bloody heap. Logan paused as his body pushed the bullets from his flesh, swallowing down the pain. He turned to the children.

“I know you’re scared, but I’m here to help you,” he said, as a red blast effectively collapsed the garage behind them. “That’s my friend over there. We’re with the X-Men. You need to follow me, we’ll take you home. Got it?”

The children were still crouched down behind the bus, looking up at him with eyes that were wide and wet. Tears stained their dirty cheeks, the soldier’s expelled blood splashed over some of them. None of them moved.

“Go!” he barked, indicating the front gate. “Now!”

Immediately, the kids began running towards the front gate, just as more soldiers exited the building like a swarm of bees. He pressed the “X” on his collar, shouting into it urgently. “We’re coming at you, Cyclops! Give us some cover!”

“Got it!” he heard in response, the sky around them illuminating in red as Scott shot beam after beam around and behind them. One of the children cried out as she was hit with a tranquilizer dart, stumbling forward as she lost her footing. Logan caught her around the waist, throwing her over his shoulder and continuing to run.

He could see Scott ahead of them, and even soaking wet in the rain the man was poised elegantly with one hand on his visor. He expelled more blasts, effectively covering Logan and the group of children. The older man realized then just how implicitly he trusted Scott; he hadn’t even looked back once to make sure he wasn’t going to get hit.

“Into the woods!” Scott commanded as they passed him. “Stay together! No matter what you do, stay together!”

Logan led the children through the dense foliage, scenting their trail to head back the way they had come. He glanced back to see Scott a few yards away, having lingered behind to blast the fence and ground at the front entrance, hoping to at least slow the soldiers down if the road and front of the property was destroyed. The field leader caught up quickly, lifting the boy with no shoes to carry him through the woods.

Bullets and tranquilizer darts zipped past them, lodging themselves into the trees and the ground, spraying up splinters of wood and dead leaves. The forest lit up with bursts of red behind Logan; Scott using his beams, destroying the path directly behind them as Logan used his claws on the foliage to ease the passage before them, both men still carrying a child.

“You’re going to have to find a place to hide,” Scott said suddenly, his breath coming quick. “These kids won’t make it hiking two hours non stop.”

“What do you mean, ‘you’?” Logan asked over his shoulder.

“I’m not going with you.”

“What?” Logan exclaimed, stopping. He turned to the other man with disbelief. “You won’t hold them back, Cyclops. There’s way more of them than there are of us. They’ll subdue you in minutes. You’re more valuable with us, protecting us.”

“I can’t,” Scott insisted, and only then did Logan realize just how hard the young man was breathing. He staggered forward to clumsily hand the child with no shoes to Logan, reaching behind himself and wincing as he pulled a tranquilizer dart from his back. “I’ve only got about ten minutes.”

“Cyclops,” the older man breathed, shaking his head. “No, we’ll make it together. I’m not -- ”

“You won’t be able to carry me and two children,” Scott stated, his tone irritatingly reasonable. “None of us will make it to the jet. You have to go. Storm is waiting. Make sure you keep her updated. That’s an order.”

“Cyclops -- ”

“That’s an _order_ , Wolverine.”

“I don’t take fucking orders from pretty boy wannabe superheroes!” Logan spat angrily, gripping the children in his arms tightly.

“You do today,” Scott said, and then turned back towards the compound, running as fast as he could.

* * *

To be continued. Thank you again for your comments and kudos! I love them. :)


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could cast my own characters, Calvin Rankin would be played by Henry Cavill, Ronald Rankin by John Glover, and Clarice Reyes by Rosario Dawson. Thanks to Minisinoo’s casting of him in her X-Men novelizations so many years ago, Warren Worthington, of course, is played by a young Jude Law (think: the Talented Mr. Ripley...and I think I just dated myself).

“Cyclops!” Logan yelled, shifting the weight of the unconscious girl lying over his shoulder as he watched the young field leader disappear into the woods. He growled in frustration, heart pounding hard in his chest. _“Damn it.”_

“There’s two of them coming,” the little boy with no shoes gripping his neck said, warm breath puffing against Logan’s ear. He turned to look at the child, his long black hair wet and sticking to the sides of his tanned face. “They don’t see us yet.”

“How do you know that?” Logan asked gruffly, eyes narrowing as he tried vainly to see anything beyond the trees and dense woods around them. His ears struggled to pick up any kind of sound besides animals crawling and bugs creeping and the children’s hitching breath and chattering teeth.

“I can see really far,” he said. “And hear really far too. Sometimes I can run really fast, but not all the time. I’m still working on that.”

“I can make fire,” another boy declared proudly in heavily accented English; Logan couldn’t place where the boy was from, but he looked Latino, olive skin and dark curly hair. He held out one of his hands, brow knotted in concentration as his palm began to glow bright orange. His skin turned to fire, spreading to his hand and up his wrist. It reminded Logan of the surface of the sun, violently churning and rolling like waves of a sea of fire. “Do you want me to burn down the forest?”

“No!” Logan exclaimed, startling the boy, who immediately closed his fist and extinguished the flames on his skin. “No. That would be very dangerous. We’re just going to walk a little longer and find a good place to hide to take a little break, and then we’re going to meet my friend Storm. She has a plane that’s going to take us somewhere safe where we can call your parents.” He turned to the boy in his arms. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Jimmy,” the boy replied.

“Okay, Jimmy, can you use your really good eyesight to find us a place to hide?”

The little boy pointed. “That way.”

The kid’s eyes were unbelievable; he’d spotted a pair of fallen trees for them to hide behind from over half of a mile away, way further than Logan could’ve seen even in pure daylight let alone in a dark winter’s night. He tucked the kids down behind a tangle of barren vines and plants that had overgrown on the trunks of the fallen trees, instructing them to sit close together.

The girl that had been hit with a tranquilizer was still unconscious; he carefully laid her down on a bed of dead leaves, brushing her purple and black hair back from her face to reveal pointed, elfen ears. He checked her pulse and breathing, scenting her for any injuries. Finding none, he turned back to the others.

“Is anyone hurt?” he asked, eyes traveling over the small, skinny bodies before him. They shook their heads unanimously, arms curled around themselves. There were five of them in addition to the unconscious girl, all of them wet and shivering like pathetic stray kittens that had been caught in the rain, eyes anxious but hopeful, as if there was still a chance they might find a dry cardboard box to take shelter in. Now that Logan had time to really look at them, he could see there were a few that were older than he originally thought, perhaps eleven or twelve years old.

One of them looked at the girl on the ground, wringing his hands nervously. “Is she going to be okay?”

“She’s going to be just fine,” he assured them, although he wasn’t nearly as confident as he sounded. Who knew what was in that cocktail she’d been hit with? But if he thought about that, he’d have to think about Scott getting dosed with the same stuff. “One of my friends is a doctor, he’ll check her out and make her all better.” He turned to the little boy with the curly dark hair. “Roberto, right? Why don’t you warm everybody up. Jimmy, I want you to keep an eye out; if you see or hear anything you let us know so he can turn it off so we won’t be seen. Got it?”

They murmured their agreement, huddling close to Roberto as he concentrated hard to turn his hands and parts of his arms into fire. Stepping away from the children, Logan turned to face the forest and just stood there for a moment, wondering what the hell he was supposed to say to ’Ro. He had to check in with her, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to tell her what had happened just yet. If she knew Scott was gone, she might want to go after him, and he couldn’t risk her leaving the plane. She was the only pilot they had. They couldn’t just leave the thing unattended; what if it was discovered and they needed to take off quickly? Logan didn’t even know where the ‘on’ button was. He didn’t even know if there _was_ and ‘on’ button.

Finally, he pressed the ‘X’ on his collar. “Storm, it’s Wolverine. We got some unexpected guests. Can that jet handle six extra kids?”

“Of course,” she responded. “Did everyone get out all right? There are no injuries?”

Carefully avoiding her first question, he silently cursed Scott for making him lie to the only person in that damn school that he actually tolerated. If pressed, he might even admit that he liked her. “One of the girls is unconscious. She got hit with a tranq gun.”

“What is your ETA?”

“I’m not sure,” he stated. “We’re taking a quick break so these kids can catch their breath, and then we’ll be on our way. Maybe an hour, give or take.”

“I’ll ready the jet for takeoff.”

He let out a great sigh of relief as he released the communicator, hoping he wouldn’t have to pay for that in the near future with a well-timed lightning bolt aimed expertly at his metal laced body or a convenient tornado that would swiftly carry him into the sky, never to be seen again.

* * *

He strode through the halls of the compound, red lights flashing from overhead, bathing the clinical white halls in undulating waves. A siren was blaring, hindering him from detecting any approaching personnel, but he didn’t need to worry about anyone hearing him coming.

He passed doors with windows neatly labeled in bold block lettering -- Procedure Room, Testing Room, Experimentation/Laboratory Room, Small Animal Containment Room -- glancing into each one as he passed by. The building had been evacuated as soon as the emergency alarm had sounded, so they were all empty save for the microscopes and autoclaves, overhead lighting and refrigeration systems, computers, projectors, meeting tables. Not so ominous until one came upon rooms fitted with hooks and shelving on the walls to hold equipment such as animal control catch poles with cable nooses, cattle prods, and tranquilizer guns, worse when coupled with cold, clean steel exam beds fitted with hard restraints.

Oh, and also the bodies. When the force of red optic blasts had destroyed parts of the building, it must have also compromised the security system, because it was clear mutants had made it out, and by any means necessary. Men and women in military fatigues and scrubs and lab coats were draped gracelessly over countertops or slumped in chairs or strewn on the floor, their bodies riddled with bullets or gutted by claws, some with broken necks; one was scorched. He passed one dead mutant on the floor from apparent gunshot wounds, her dull gray jumpsuit punctuated with dark red holes.

As he turned a corner, he found himself at the end of a long hallway; an EXIT sign came into sight, the red lettering muted against the red flashing emergency lights, his whole vision red. He moved quickly towards the door, the same one that Mystique had slipped through only the night before.

The rain had stopped once Scott and Logan had escaped with the children, but the parking lot had nearly flooded with water and mud. It was almost deserted now, only some cars remaining in their assigned spaces. Fleetingly, he wondered who they belonged to, where their owners were, if they were dead or alive. There was a transport vehicle loading in a group of scientists towards the rear entrance, military men shouting urgent orders as they climbed inside. He quickly followed the length of the building to the front lawn, but no one paid him any attention.

He slipped around the front of the building, where the majority of the attack had taken place, leaning against the brick facade briefly as he took the time to really survey the damage for the first time. The ground had been torn up in several places from the power of concussive force, holes scattered among the green like a tripped minefield. The guard’s booth was completely destroyed, concrete and steel reduced to a pile of rubble; the garage entrance was in a similar state. The bus that had transported the children had ultimately been overturned, and several soldiers’ bodies lay strewn throughout the grounds, either eviscerated by an indestructible set of knives or blown away by the force of deadly red blasts.

Crossing the yard to the barely recognizable front entrance, he came across the still form of a mutant lying on the ground. Pausing, he knelt down beside the body, frowning down at the man before glancing over his shoulder at the building behind him. He couldn’t leave it standing.

He rose and turned back towards the compound. A man in a labcoat was standing at the corner of the building, watching him. He was an older man with a tall, lanky frame, glasses reflecting the light of the moon. A soldier came up behind the scientist, holding his rifle in the low-ready position; his eyes followed the doctor’s line of sight, but neither of the two men made a move to intervene.

“Dr. Rankin,” the soldier urged, his voice barely audible across the lawn. The man hesitated only briefly before nodding and turning away.

Planting his feet hip-distance apart to anchor himself, he once more glanced at the body beside him before adjusting his sights and taking aim at the building in front of him. Letting out a deep breath to steel himself, he opened up his eyes wide and _pushed_.

A torrent of angry red blasts escaped his eyes, traversed the yard as fast as lightening and just as bright, striking the building with a boom as loud as thunder. Brick and mortar and cement exploded, metal twisting, shrapnel flying, the building folding and collapsing in on itself as easily as a house of cards. The ground rumbled low and deep, reverberating beneath his feet, a steady bass beat that he was sure could be felt for miles.

The building was gone within moments. Staggering backwards from the recoil, he lost his footing and hit the ground, one single beam shooting across the sky like a searchlight before he managed to close his eyes. He laid there in the wet grass, woozy, his mind spinning and his heart racing. Sudden fatigue overwhelmed him. He heard footsteps fast approaching, but couldn’t seem to open his eyes. Someone was calling to him, asking him if he was all right, but he was only vaguely aware of their voice before he slipped into darkness.

* * *

Cecilia Reyes had wanted to be a doctor for as long as she could remember. That is, from the tender age of six years old, when her father had been gunned down in front of her in a senseless act of violence. She didn’t have many memories before then, only a few fleeting tangents of events: climbing onto the bus for her first day of kindergarten, anxious eyes searching for a place to sit amongst the unfamiliar children; her mother pressing a terry cloth to her split lip after she had fallen off of the slide in her backyard; standing on her tiptoes to peer over the kitchen counter while her grandmother showed her the secret ingredient of her empanadas (a kiss blown from the tips of her wrinkled fingers into the pot).

Sometimes, she felt as if her life had started from the moment her father died. It was her first vivid memory, the loud bangs, the shrieks of terror, then a slam into the ground as her father shielded her from a barrage of bullets. Stuck between the cement and his considerable weight, crushed, she had felt as if she was suffocating. She’d twisted and pushed and squirmed out from beneath him until she found air, gulping in heaving breaths as she blinked against the light. She remembers her ears were ringing. She remembers she was crying.

She remembers her father’s eyes the most, as she watched him die on the pavement, the way they flickered in and out, his vision wavering between this world and the next.

It was only later that it occurred to her if only she had been a doctor, maybe she could have saved him. It had struck her like an epiphany, the idea alluring to a small, frightened child that had felt so helpless and useless, and she hadn’t been able to shake the sentiment since.

Now, twenty five years later, she felt just as powerless as the day her father had died. An alarm was blaring, red lights flashing outside of her prison cell. Some of the mutants had been able to escape -- perhaps the security system had failed somehow, or maybe someone had tampered with it -- but her cell and a few others’ remained securely locked. One would think one of the mutants that was lucky enough to get free would try to help the others still trapped, but they all ran out of there as fast and as hasty as spooked horses from a barn.

“Damn it!” she cried, gripping the metal bars tightly, and wished for something other than the powers she had been born with: her psioplasmic bio-field, a force field she could create around her body, protecting her from any harm. It sure hadn’t helped her, though, when that tranquilizer had hit her in the parking lot of the hospital she worked at; she hadn’t sensed any danger, and therefore hadn’t had any time to shield herself.

Hours later, she found herself waking up in this damn cell, wearing a dull gray jumpsuit whose stiff material itched like hell. So she may have been bitter at being caught unawares in the parking lot, but her powers had sure come in handy when the soldiers had tried to remove her from her cell to take her only God knew where. They may have been able to take her blood while she had been unconscious, but as far as she could tell that was the only injury she had sustained. While wearing her force field with only minimal, sporadic breaks was certainly taxing, it was undoubtedly better than the alternative if the condition of her fellow prisoners were any indication.

Now, however, she would’ve killed for some metal claws or laser beams or the ability to bend metal to her will.

She let out a frustrated breath, slamming the side of her fist against the cell bars before turning away. There was a girl in the cell beside her, a tiny thing no older than a teenager, fairy-like in her appearance with pink hair and iridescent wings as thin and as translucent as a dragonfly’s. The girl had been there when Cecilia had first awoken in her cell, but they had barely spoken. The soldiers kept her in a sedated state due to her ability to produce what Cecilia had come to think of as “pixie dust,” some kind of fine, glittery powder that the soldiers were definitely afraid of but Cecilia had no idea what exactly it could do.

The few times they had interacted, on the rare occasions the girl drifted into consciousness, Cecilia had tried to ask if she was okay -- the doctor in her needing to help, to do something, _anything_ for this girl -- but the pixie had been unable to respond coherently.

The girl was the only other mutant in this cell block that was still trapped, although beyond the open door of the hallway, Cecilia could hear other mutants’ desperate cries and the clattering of metal on metal as they tried vainly to break free. She knelt down at the bars separating the two women, reaching out tentatively to touch the girl’s hand, who was lying on a cot, still barely conscious in her drug-induced state.

“Hey,” Cecilia called over the sirens, shaking the girl’s arm. “Hey, you have to wake up. We need to try to get out of here.”

The girl opened her eyes, her stare glassy and unfocused. She tried to pull her arm away.

“Come on,” Cecilia urged, and shook the girl’s arm again, more forcefully this time. “This might be our only chance! You have to wake up!”

“What…” the girl murmured, barely audible over the blaring alarms. “What’s happening…?”

“I don’t know!” Cecilia cried. “But some of the others escaped, and the soldiers are gone. I can’t get out, can you?”

“I can…” she began, struggling to continue. Her eyes kept dropping closed, her lids heavy. “I can…teleport.”

Cecilia’s heart leapt with joy, relief washing over her with the intensity of a tidal wave. She smiled encouragingly. “Okay, okay. Do you think you can try? You can try to get out of here, and maybe you can come back for me?”

“I can take us both,” she said weakly. “You just...you have to hold on to me. But I don’t...I don’t think I’m strong enough.”

“It’s okay, take your time,” Cecilia responded consolingly. “What’s your name?”

“Megan,” she replied, her wings fluttering slowly. Cecilia felt hope overwhelm her once more, wondering if it was a sign that the girl was getting stronger.

“Megan, I’m Cecilia,” she told her.

“Thank you.”

The doctor frowned, confused by the sentiment. Maybe the girl wasn’t perking up as Cecilia had hoped. “For what?”

“For asking me how I was doing,” Megan responded, offering a small smile. “All those times before. You were the only person here that’s ever been nice to me.”

Cecelia smiled, blinking away the dampness in her eyes. “Of course. Do you think you can try to sit up?”

“I -- ”

The building suddenly _rocked_ , shifting, shaking, trembling. The ceiling was rippling, the walls, the floor. The sirens and lights ceased, replaced with the sounds of twisting metal and crunching concrete and the rumbling of the disintegrating foundation, as loud as a train wreck and just as violent. Cecilia screamed but she couldn’t hear her own voice. She gripped Megan’s hand tightly, the other holding the bars, watching the ceiling crack and tumble, releasing plaster and wood and metal. Pipes were crushed, bursting, water rushing in from above.

Instinctively, Cecilia threw up her force field, protecting herself from any falling debris, but Megan would know no such mercies. The rubble fell around them both, burying them faster than Cecilia could have imagined, and when darkness and silence both fell, the only thing she was left with in her tiny sanctuary was Megan’s severed hand.

* * *

Almost two hours after leaving the compound -- after leaving Scott Summers behind -- Logan made it to the plane with two children in his arms and another four trailing right behind him. Ororo was waiting in the open doorway, relief written all over her face at the sight of him, and that hurt more than anything else. She was happy that he was safe and unharmed (even though they both knew his body could heal any wound), and he didn’t deserve that. Not after what he’d done.

As her gaze traveled over the children and then to the woods behind them, as the panic seeped into her searching eyes when no one else emerged from the trees, as she met Logan’s gaze and saw the confirmation of her silent fears in his pained expression, he realized that nothing ever could have prepared him for the utter devastation he felt at failing her.

“Is anyone following you?” she asked, her voice remarkably calm, but her eyes were begging him not to tell her what she already knew was true.

“No,” Logan responded quietly, his chest tightening. She recovered almost immediately, her features shifting into a clear and impassive expression. He swallowed hard before turning to the children. “Kids, this is my -- ” His voice faltered, and he had to clear his throat before he could continue. “This is my friend Storm, the one I told you about. She’s going to take us to a safe place.”

“Children,” she commanded then. “Please, come in.”

There were a few shocked murmurs amongst the children as they boarded the plane, awed by the impressiveness of the jet. The girl still unconscious -- Clarice, Logan had learned her name was from one of the other kids -- was gently laid into a chair and buckled in. As she herded the rest of the children into seats, ’Ro instructed Logan to grab thermal blankets from the supply cabinet, then assisted him in draping them over the poor kids’ trembling, wet bodies.

Once the children were settled in, she strode to the open hatch of the jet. She looked back at Logan from over her shoulder. “A word please.”

He steeled himself as he stepped outside into the frigid night air, his breath escaping in puffs of warm steam, but nothing chilled him as much as the icy look in the Storm Queen’s eyes.

“What happened?” she snapped, her perfectly arched eyebrows knitting together.

“He got hit with a tranquilizer,” he said, with a quickness one would use to pull off a bandaid in order to ease the pain. “He wasn’t going to make it.”

“You left him there?” she accused.

“No. He decided to stay behind.”

“Did they take him?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what happened to him?”

“No,” Logan snapped defensively through gritted teeth, his voice edged with impatience. He stood taller, back stiff, as if posturing to fight. “He told me to stay with the kids.”

Her stance matched his, fists clenched at her sides. “And you _listened_ to him?”

Logan was sure that any answer would be the wrong answer, but he would thankfully never get the chance to respond. There was an unexpected rumbling in the ground beneath them, like the tremors of a small earthquake, and both Logan and ’Ro shared a look of confusion before their eyes moved to the woods around them. Suddenly, a bolt of red flashed into the sky, lightening fast but they saw it before it dissipated into the air. They turned back to each other with renewed hope.

“He is still alive,” ’Ro breathed. “We have to go back for him.”

“But the kids -- ”

“Logan,” she warned quietly, her voice small but fierce, and as she continued to speak the wind picked up just a little bit, a gentle breeze that caressed the branches of the trees and swept up locks of her long, white hair. Her eyes clouded slightly, milky like cataracts, and for the first time in a long time, Logan was afraid for his life. “I am not losing one of the only friends I have left. We are going back for him.”

He shook his head, swallowing down his terror and his guilt (although he’d never admit to either emotion). “We have our orders.”

“Since when do you follow orders?” she barked, striding past him to return to the plane. “We are not leaving without Scott.”

“’Ro!” he nearly shouted, grabbing her by her arm and swinging her back to face him. Her eyes widened with anger and incredulity. “Look, I understand!” he pleaded, gripping her arms firmly, and then repeated quietly, “I understand.”

Her expression softened at his words and the urgency with which they were spoken, her eyes searching his, big brown orbs reflecting her complete and utter fear. She nodded, swallowing hard and blinking away the dampness in her eyes, and he knew she believed him. Because he’d loved Jean too, and he loved Scott too, and Storm, and all of those damn kids and maybe even Xavier too.

“He didn’t rescue those kids just to put them right back in unnecessary danger,” he said gently. “He told us to wait thirty minutes if one of us didn’t return. We’ll wait thirty minutes.”

She nodded almost absently, her gaze directed elsewhere. “And if he doesn’t return?”

“Then you’ll get these kids out of here,” he replied, very seriously, “and I’ll go back and bring him home.”

Nodding again, she let out a deep breath before casting him an apologetic glance. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he responded, shrugging. “Just don’t do that shit again. It’s fucking stressful being the voice of reason.”

* * *

There were several ways one could describe Calvin Rankin’s father. Dr. Ronald Rankin was incredibly intelligent, having earned a degree in chemistry from Stanford University in California. He’d graduated in less than four years by taking a heavier course-load during the year and additional classes in the summer. He’d even done it while working a full time night job to support his new wife and baby boy, even if it meant they spent most of their time together without him.

He was a dedicated military man; he’d joined the Reserve Officers’ Training Corps at Stanford even after it was no longer mandatory. He’d remained wholeheartedly devoted to his beloved ROTC when students and faculty had begun to make the program a target for demonstrations and demands during the height of the Vietnam War. He’d cried when they burned the ROTC building to the ground during one of their anti-war, anti-military protests.

Cal was too young to remember California, but he does remember Alabama. Their family had relocated there so his father could attend the United States Army Chemical School and join the Chemical Corps, a branch of the Army tasked with defending against chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear weapons. (Although upon its creation in 1918, originally called the Chemical Warfare Service, its only interest was chemical warfare; biological, radiological, and nuclear had yet to be of concern.)

He was a hard-working employee, working long days and even weekends sometimes, when the job called for it. Cal could remember his father going to work each morning in a pressed white shirt and tie, briefcase in one hand and coffee in the other, and somewhere else a bagel or a muffin, juggling all three while still managing to kiss his wife and soon goodbye before breezing out the door. He could remember his mother’s frown when they would eat dinner alone, pushing food around on her plate as she kept one eye on the clock. They’d watch the news together before bed, his father still absent and his mother’s frown deepening as the talking heads relayed yet another incident concerning the U.S. biological warfare program.

It probably shouldn’t have been a surprise when his mother packed a suitcase one day and kissed her son goodbye, asking him to keep an eye on his father, but Ronald had still been quietly and thoroughly shocked when he came home from work that evening to find his son eating ice cream for dinner alone.

So a good husband Ronald Rankin was not, but he accepted responsibility for his son, making sure he went to school even though he didn’t always pick him up, and more often than not Cal had to walk home, sometimes in the rain. And he’d eat dinner alone, and watch TV alone, sometimes those same news shows he and his mother used to watch.

One night he caught a newscast detailing the dismantling of the Chemical Corps, but when he mentioned it to his father, Ronald had only smiled, half reassuring and half amused, insisting that Cal needn’t worry himself with such things. Besides, he’d said, the press didn’t always know the whole story; sometimes the government had to keep things from them, from the whole general public, because even though they weren’t supposed to do something, sometimes they still had to in order to protect the American people.

Once the program had been disassembled and the Chemical School shut down in 1973, they’d relocated to the Aberdeen Proving Ground in Maryland, the nation’s oldest testing facility for military weapons and technology. Because even though the Chemical Corps no longer existed, his father had explained, there was still plenty of work to be done.

Although Cal had initially resented having to leave all of his friends after losing his mother only a few years earlier, the move offered Cal the opportunity to spend time with his father in a way he’d never been able to before now that his school and home was on the base. He’d attend school during the day and afterwards would dutifully complete his homework at the kitchen table, then run through the housing units, cutting through yards and side streets, to his father’s laboratory. The security guard would greet him with a big smile and a lollipop, other soldiers paying him no heed, used to seeing Cal bounding through the halls in search of his father. He’d find his dad with his nose down a microscope or carefully mixing chemicals or buried beneath a pile of paperwork, and Ronald would smile and kiss his son hello, allowing Cal to sit and watch if he promised to do so quietly and without interrupting his father from his work.

This was where Cal learned just how extraordinary a scientist his father was. Ronald was patient in his research but tenacious and determined. He didn’t let negative press or a decline in public opinion concerning chemical or biological weapons research in the military deter his efforts or his fervor. Ronald surrounded himself with like-minded scientists and military officials, men and women who understood that sometimes boundaries had to be crossed, that sometimes sacrifices had to be made, that sometimes “first, do no harm” had to come second in the name of the greater good.

The mutant phenomenon had opened all kinds of doors to new developments in research, and once it was discovered that Ronald’s own son -- now a teenager -- could mimic any nearby mutant’s powers for a few hours at a time, there was no way the doctor could allow the opportunity to finally achieve the perfect weapon to slip through his fingers. Imagine if they could find a way to make it permanent! His son would be the most powerful weapon on earth!

It had been all too easy to convince the boy that this was something they could accomplish together, as a father and son team, offering a closeness that Cal had yearned for all those nights spent alone at the dinner table after his mother had left and his father had been too busy with work to join him.

Perhaps becoming a product of his father’s ideals could have festered resentment, but Ronald’s first priority had always been to protect the American people. Cal’s role in that was important, and by proxy, _he_ was important. He was going to serve his country in a way no one else could, the ultimate soldier. All while fulfilling his father’s dream. So he allowed himself to be pushed hard, to undergo rigorous testing even if it was sometimes unpleasant, because he was what his father had worked towards all these years, the legacy to Ronald Rankin’s life’s work.

It was only as he got older that he realized just how important he _wasn’t_ \-- not Calvin Rankin; he was just a scrawny little kid that Ronald had gotten stuck with after his mother had previously decided he wasn’t worth sticking around for. But Mimic, able to possess another mutant’s power just by standing next to them, _he_ was invaluable.

Well, it was time to prove he _was_ important. He’d show his dad once and for all that he could take initiative and follow through -- that he _mattered_ \-- starting with this mutant in his arms. After the compound had been destroyed by unforgiving red force beams, he’d picked the man up that he’d found unconscious in the front yard of the facility and darted into the woods. Luckily, Cal had been amongst one of the several mutants running from the compound once the security system had failed, allowing him to temporarily absorb others’ powers and giving him greater strength and faster speed, making it much easier to quickly traverse the dense forest and make his escape.

Much like most of the population after the events on Liberty Island last year, he was aware of the vigilante army of mutants that had saved the lives of countless world leaders. The X-Men is what the mutants in the compound had called them during whispered conversations between cells late at night, and he’d heard that the blue woman with orange hair and an attitude had been one of them, although no one had come to rescue her. He briefly wondered if she had been with them tonight, although she’d been in pretty bad shape when she’d been allowed to escape.

Regardless, Cal knew the man in his arms was an X-Man and his best bet for getting into their headquarters and possibly on to the team, if he could prove himself. Rescuing the man seemed like a good start. Cal had tried to awaken him a few times, but the young man remained unresponsive. He supposed he’d just have to keep searching the surrounding woods until either he found one of the other team members, or someone found him. He just hoped they hadn’t already left, otherwise Cal would have no idea where to go. At least not until the man regained consciousness, and hopefully he didn’t have a complex head injury that would compromise his mental state or -- worse -- kill him. Then he’d be really screwed. He didn’t risk everything leaving that lab just to lose the race before it even started.

_“Someone’s coming.”_

He paused briefly at the whisper of a voice floating through the trees, holding his breath and remaining completely still as he strained to hear more. A child’s voice, or a young woman perhaps. There must have been a mutant nearby with acute hearing -- and vision too, because now he could make out some type of plane through the trees that had to be at least a half of a mile away, the same direction the voices were coming from.

_“There’s two of them. Two heartbeats.”_

Yes, he could hear heartbeats too. Several of them, in fact, some faster than others. More children, perhaps? Although it didn’t make sense to him why any child would be there. Surely, the X-Men didn’t have children on their team. Had they come from the compound? He never remembered seeing any there. Could his father have possibly collected children in order to further his research?

_“Do you think it’s Cyclops?”_

A man’s deep voice, rough with worry. Cal glanced at the man in his arms, eyeing the visor he was wearing. So they hadn’t left him behind, a measure of true loyalty -- true love. Cal frowned, a flash of envy overwhelming him. Maybe one day he could experience that kind of love; perhaps if he made it in with this group of people, into their headquarters, onto their team, became the true ultimate soldier he aspired to be, then he would finally know that kind of love.

He stepped out of the woods and into the small clearing they were waiting in, in front of an extraordinary decommissioned SR-71 Blackbird that he recognized from old military books now that he was closer. A tall black woman with pure white hair stood before him, along with a stocky man with a menacing expression and foot long metal claws, both postured to pounce on him within a moment’s notice, and he was suddenly able to sense their anxiety -- he could smell it on them.

He smiled disarmingly. “I think I found something that belongs to you.”

* * *

Logan shifted uneasily in the hard plastic chair, chewing compulsively on the end of an unlit, half-smoked cigar. He uncrossed and recrossed his arms, then uncrossed them again in order to wipe his damp palms on his jeans, frowning as he considered the still form of the man lying in the hospital bed in front of him. He watched the dark eyeglasses void of red light, hoping they would illuminate by sheer force of will before turning a critical eye on the doctor standing at the end of the bed, who was currently documenting something in the chart clutched in his big blue hands.

“Why isn’t he awake yet?” Logan asked, hoping his accusatory tone would disguise his worry.

“I’m going to give you the same answer I gave you thirty minutes ago, Logan,” Hank murmured with a martyd sigh. “He was heavily dosed with a strong sedative. We have to wait for his system to metabolize it.”

“You said his metabolism is faster because of his mutation,” Logan countered, leaning forward and anxiously sniffing in Scott’s general direction in case of any new injuries since the last time he’d scented him about ten minutes ago. “Because of the sun or some shit. You said he’d wake up soon.”

“And he will,” the doctor reassured him. He glanced at Logan, his golden eyes sparkling with amusement. “You just have to be patient, which I’ve heard is one of your finer qualities.”

Logan scoffed as he settled back in his chair again, his expression grim. He could really use a stiff drink right now, but he didn’t want to leave the Boy Scout’s side. After all, he’d gotten the kid into this mess in the first place, the least he could do was see it through to the end.

“He’s survived far worse, you know,” Hank commented almost absently, refocused on the chart.

“I know,” Logan growled, giving the doctor pause. As if the furball had to remind him. Hadn’t Logan been right there when the poor kid had survived the worst of all?

“Of course,” he said regretfully in understanding, as he hung the chart on the footboard of the bed. “My apologies.”

Henry reviewed Scott’s vitals one more time before heading for the door, pausing to regard Logan with much more pity in his eyes than Logan thought was necessary. “He’s going to be fine, Logan.”

“Yeah,” the other man grunted dismissively. He slouched down in his chair, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, listening to the beeps and hums of the various monitors and electronics in the small room reassuring him that the man on the bed was still alive. He tried not to feel guilty. He tried not to feel anything.

Thirty-seven minutes. That’s how long he and ’Ro had stood outside that plane, waiting to see if their fearless leader -- their brother, their friend, their… The weather goddess had constantly scanned the woods, so worried the clouds kept rushing in over the moon, thunder rumbling low, winds picking up, before she’d remember herself and suddenly everything would clear. Logan was no better, surreptitiously checking his watch every fifteen seconds, hoping ’Ro wouldn’t notice how many minutes overdue they were.

Logan had smelled Scott before he could see him, along with another unfamiliar male. They’d immediately sent their makeshift lookout Jimmy Proudstar back into the plane to buckle up, closing the hatch behind him, and waited. It had taken all of Logan’s willpower not to send Wolverine into the woods with claws brandished to drag them out, instead standing at the ready in case the unknown man with Scott was armed or dangerous or both.

He supposed he should have expected Scott to be unconscious (he had been hit with a tranquilizer after all), but he was still surprised when the tall man with dark hair wearing a gray jumpsuit emerged from the foliage with the young field leader in his arms. His disarming smile and quip did nothing to ease the pounding of Logan’s heart or stop the low, warning growl from escaping the back of his throat.

He didn’t want to take the man with them, but ’Ro had insisted. He’d escaped from the compound and brought Scott back to them, they could at least get him to safe grounds and offer him formal medical treatment. Logan had kept a watchful eye on him the entire way back, snarling and enjoying the way the younger man shifted uncomfortably beneath his stare.

Presently, he became aware of a rustling sound from the bed that immediately startled him out of his thoughts. He snapped his head up to see Scott watching him, red glow dim behind his ruby quartz, but it was there. His chapped lips were slightly parted, slow and heavy breaths escaping from between them. The young man swallowed, then glanced around the room, his movements slow, still groggy from the tranquilizer.

“Hey,” Logan whispered, leaning forward to grip the rails of Scott’s bed. “You with me there, kid?”

Scott swallowed again before speaking, his voice gravelly from disuse. “Yeah.”

“Want some water?” Logan asked, quickly rising from the chair and turning to see if he could find a water pitcher or a cup somewhere. He glanced back as he felt a hand abruptly grip one of his still resting on the bed rail, stopping him. Scott was breathing hard through his nose, lips in a thin white line. His glasses were dark, eyes closed. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

“Don’t move so fast,” the young man pleaded. “Makes me want to puke.”

“Sorry,” Logan apologized, sitting down slowly and remaining very still when Scott did not remove his hand from Logan’s; the kid’s palm was clammy but warm, his long fingers curled around Logan’s weakly.

“Did everyone make it home?” Scott asked, once he’d recovered.

“Yeah,” the older mutant responded. “’Ro’s getting the kids settled in. Chuck’s tracking down their parents.”

“Good,” Scott murmured. “She’s all right? ’Ro?”

“Yeah, she’s fine.”

“The professor, he…he isn’t too upset with me, is he?” the young man inquired hesitantly, looking adorably worried. Such a Boy Scout, so concerned with disappointing daddy. He wondered if the kid wasn’t so doped up out of his gourd on God-knew-what kind of tranquilizers, would he have revealed something so sentimental.

“No, Scott,” Logan replied, compressing his amusement. He remembered the way Xavier had been awaiting their arrival in the hangar downstairs, the way he’d gently stroked Scott’s forehead when Logan had carried him from the plane and placed him onto a gurney. “He’s just glad you’re okay.”

“And you’re okay?”

Logan blinked, surprised. “You know my healing factor.”

“But you’re okay?” Scott pressed, his voice laced with tender concern.

All Logan could do for a moment was breathe, before he managed to find his voice. Gruffly, he said, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good,” the young man said again, giving Logan’s fingers a gentle squeeze before his hand slipped back down to the bed. The field leader frowned with a bemused expression. “How did I get here? Did you come back for me?”

“No,” Logan told him. “One of the mutants that escaped found you. He brought you back to the plane.”

Scott’s brow knitted. “One of the kids?”

“No. What do you remember?”

“I remember getting hit by a tranquilizer. I remember running back towards the compound.” He paused, struggling to recall. “I don’t remember anything after that. What happened?”

“You got a bunch of mutants out,” Logan stated, one eyebrow cocked. “That’s what the guy said that found you. He said you got all the mutants out and leveled the building. Then you passed out.”

“What?” Scott breathed dubiously. “I leveled the building? Why would I do that?”

Logan shrugged. “Seems logical to me. Why would you want to leave a place like that standing?”

“What if there were people inside?”

“Cal said the building was evacuated. That’s the guy that got you to the plane.”

Scott shook his head. “It just doesn’t seem like something I’d do.”

“Scott,” the older mutant soothed gently, “you were pumped full of tranquilizers. With your crazy metabolism, who knows what kind of effect those drugs had on you?”

The field leader only frowned, remaining quietly pensive. He yawned suddenly, raising a shaky hand to cover his mouth.

“Hey, get some rest,” Logan said, and stood from his chair. “I’ll let Hank know you’re up.”

Scott groaned. “Please don’t. He’ll insist on running a battery of tests and I’m too weak to fight him off.”

Logan smirked. “Mum’s the word, eh?”

The young man smiled back, sleepy and endearing, with just a hint of mischief like they were in on the same secret. It was overwhelming, the rush of affection coursing through him, the relief, the longing, the fear, the guilt. Without thinking, Logan found himself reaching down to gently card his fingers through Scott’s soft, dark hair. He pulled away slowly, heart pounding as he realized what he’d done, but Scott was thankfully still too pumped full of sedatives to protest the unexpected and inappropriate sign of affection. Instead, the young man only sighed contentedly, the red glow behind his glasses dimming as he closed his eyes.

God, he’d done it again. What he’d promised himself never to do again after Jeannie had been crushed beneath thousands of pounds of water, obliterated just like whatever had been left of his heart after waking up in that laboratory so many years ago. Never again would he feel the aching, devastating emptiness every time he passed her room or her office or the lab and couldn’t smell her scent anymore. Never again would he have to witness grim expressions punctuated with eyes full of agony day after day, not especially in the eyes of Charles Xavier, directed right at Logan while asking, _“How could you let this happen?”_ when he carried the bloodied and broken body of Scott off the plane.

Horrified, Logan turned away and forced himself to walk calmly to the door. He wouldn’t do this. Not again.

“Logan,” Scott murmured. He paused but didn’t turn back. “You did good today.”

He continued through the doorway, pretending not to hear.

* * *

To be continued...

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I apologize for the amount of time it has taken for me to write this. I have no excuse. All facts about the U.S. chemical/biological warfare programs are true, as well as the U.S. Army Chemical School and Aberdeen Proving Ground, and also the history of ROTC in Stanford. And, yes, I’ve stolen some of the future mutants from Days of Future Past, because the timeline fits and they had to have met somewhere. Anyway, hope you enjoyed my efforts! Thanks for your patience, and kudos and comments.


End file.
